Long Way Down: The 148th Hunger Games
by Jayfish
Summary: After the hell that was the failed rebellion, the Capitol is hungry for District blood. 24 tributes are forced to battle in a cruel arena to satiate the hurt and anger of an entire country. One will win, if you can call it winning. SYOT CLOSED.
1. Prologue: In Which Vascula is Welcomed

**Hey everyone, welcome to my SYOT! I'm Jayfish, and I used to be pretty active in this community several years ago, but took a long break from Fanfiction. Recently I decided I wanted to come back and write another SYOT, so here I am! Below is my first prologue chapter, which details life after winning the Hunger Games for the most recent Victor, and introduces some of the mentors for your tributes. If you want to submit, all submission info is on my profile page. Please only PM your submissions! I hope to see you soon, and I hope you enjoy the story.**

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 _You're watching_ Victor's Village, _Panem's hottest Victor-centric reality program! Last episode, the most recent male and female Victors from every district battled to bring their tributes home from the Hunger Games. Jericho Baum of District Seven was the first Victor to lose his tribute, which means it's Penance Month in District Seven! Congratulations are in order for Amaryllis Spencer of District Two, for mentoring Panem's newest Victor, Vascula Phalanx! In this episode, we say goodbye to Amaryllis and welcome Vascula to the_ Victor's Village, _where she'll stay until she can mentor a winning female tribute from District Two! Good luck to Vascula, and enjoy your time on…_ Victor's Village!

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 **Vascula Phalanx, 18  
District Two Female, Victor of the 147th Hunger Games**

The door swung shut behind Amaryllis, and Vascula was left alone in her new home.

Not quite alone. She walked into the kitchen and to the counter, and peered into the unblinking black eye of the camera perched on a metal stalk at the center. "Hello," she said, tapping at the camera. A red light winked over the lens. "Are you filming?"

Well, there was no way to know. _They won't show you episodes of_ Victor's Village _while you live here,_ Amaryllis had said before she left. _But trust me, they're filming. They're filming_ everything.

Vascula walked to the table in the center of the kitchen, pulled out a wooden chair, and sat down. The walls had been painted slate grey, and she chose one and stared at the paint. _Run,_ said the animal in her brain. _Train. Exercise, fight. Kill._ Her hands were tense in her lap. She picked them up and laid them flat against the wood of the table. _Relax,_ she told herself consciously. _Fight,_ said the animal. _Calm,_ Vascula told it.

There was a knock on the door. Then a voice. "Open up, District Two! Don't you _dare_ sit in there and mope. You're on live goddamned TV, kid!"

She frowned. Then she slipped out of the chair and padded over to the front door and opened it as it shivered from another heavy knock. She had just enough time to register that the man in her doorway was tall and light-eyed before he took her around the neck and hurled her out of her own front door, into the street beyond.

Vascula scrambled to her feet, palms smarting where she'd driven them into the asphalt. The tall man stared at her from the threshold of her own house. In one hand he held a scythe, which he swung around his wrist. She could see it slicing at the air in silvery flashes of light. He was a salt-and-pepper man, almost at an age where he could be called gaunt instead of imposing. His eyes were bright. "You're a Victor," she said. "I remember your Games."

"Damn right you do." He stepped off her threshold and strolled up the path towards her, still swinging the scythe. She backed away, searching the ground for a weapon. Nothing. Just the manicured lawn of her Victor's Village mansion, and the asphalt path that led to the street where the other mansions stood.

"District Nine," she said. "I don't remember your name." She'd backed into her own picket fence. She slipped over onto the other side, shifting her weight back and forth between her feet. _Swing,_ she thought, watching the scythe cut air. _Swing it. Don't hesitate. Just swing._

"You little shit." He grinned. The fence stood in between them. It was like staring in at a caged animal, a mutt, maybe. "I'm _famous."_

He swung. She ducked under the blow and felt the scythe sing over her head. "No," she said, exploding upwards, grabbing both of his outstretched arms and dragging him down so that his stomach thudded into the fence. He tore away from her with a short startled laugh, and hopped over the fence.

"Look at you!" he said. "You are a _tough cookie."_ The scythe blurred into an arc of light that flashed around his arm. "I can almost see how you beat my kill record. Real take no prisoners gal, huh?"

"Yeah," said Vascula, watching the scythe. "That's me."

He lunged for her again, scythe curving towards the soft flesh of her stomach. She dodged to the right. There was a short sharp pain in her side, and she resisted looking to see how bad it was. _It'll have to wait,_ she thought. _I'm not going to win this,_ she thought.

Vascula swiveled to face him. The tall man had one hand on his hip. With the other he brandished the scythe in her direction. The curved tip dripped blood. "District _Two,"_ he said. "Ten kills? That's abso-fuckin-lutely crazy."

"They thought so," said Vascula.

"I'll bet." He strolled forwards again. "You gotta understand, kid. I held that record for a _long_ time. And you show up like that, blasting away, all gung ho, and you _take my record away._ What the hell, District Two?" His eyebrows furrowed. "Super uncool."

He rushed. She crouched to the ground and sprang into his belly, which she hoped still hurt from when she'd dragged it into the fence. They fell to the asphalt and she clawed at his face, mute, glaring. _This isn't supposed to happen,_ she thought. _This show is supposed to be about stupid drama. Not about killing. That's what the Games are for._

The shaft of the scythe jabbed at her injured side. She reared back, and then the curved blade was at her throat. She froze. Her fingertips were wet with his blood. Skin was buried under her fingernails.

He laughed. The blade at her neck wobbled. "Aw man," he said. "You _fucked up my face,_ District Two." Stripes of red tore across his forehead and cheeks. His silver beard was spotted with blood. "I love it."

He sat up and pushed her aside. She got to her feet and glared at him as he stood. "Good show," he said. "The viewers are gonna eat it up." He winked. "The name's Abraham Savage. Welcome to the Victor's Village, District Two." He slung the scythe across his shoulders and walked away, whistling tunelessly. She watched him go, pressing one hand against the wound in her side. Her palm was wet with blood. Her eyes were wild.

 _Fight,_ said her animal brain. _Kill._

This time she didn't argue.


	2. Prologue: In Which Vascula Meets Morphol

**Hello everyone and welcome to the second prologue chapter of _Long Way Down!_ I'm still looking for tributes and would love it if you submitted! This second prologue chapter introduces another mentor for one of your tributes and continues to detail life on _Victor's Village,_ the inane TV show one of your tributes will end up on if they win the 148th Games. Fun!**

 **Thanks for reading, and please submit!**

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 _Welcome back to_ Victor's Village, _where drama and the deadliest killers in Panem go hand in hand! Last episode, we saw Abraham Savage's attempt to welcome newest Victor Vascula Phalanx to the_ Victor's Village _… by attacking her. Will this bold choice win over the judges? Or will one of the other Victors welcome Vascula in a more conventional way and win this month's challenge? Watch tonight's episode and find out!_

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 **Vascula Phalanx, 18  
District Two Female, Victor of the 147th Hunger Games**

Vascula Phalanx had finished laving tap water over the wound in her side when she heard the knock on the door.

She squeezed the cup in her hand so that she felt the plastic beginning to distort in her grip. Then she slammed the cup onto the kitchen counter. Tap water sloshed over the side and puddled around the base of the cup. For a moment she was concerned that the camera perched on the counter would somehow be damaged, but she shook herself and thought, _It's fine. I'm sure there are dozens of these all over the house. Better hidden than that one, too._

There was a wooden block on the counter that held a set of knives. She pulled the biggest one from its sheath and walked into the living room, towards the door. Warm liquid trickled down her side from the wound with every step.

When she reached the door, she rose onto her tip toes to peer through the peep hole. On the other side was the face of a man on the older side of young, distorted by the rounded glass. She recognized the symmetry of his features, and stepped away from the peep hole. _That's Allen Morphol,_ she thought. _Victor from District Three. Still handsome._

"Hello, Mr. Morphol," she said. "What do you want?"

She could see the shadows of his feet in the light filtering underneath the door. "To welcome you to the Victor's Village," said Allen. His voice was gentle and lilting, like he was speaking a lullaby. She remembered that voice from his Games, which she'd watched on video. She remembered a lot about Allen Morphol's Games.

"No, thank you," she said. "Abraham Savage tried to welcome me earlier."

"I heard," said Allen. His voice was muffled by the door. "I've brought supplies with me. I can sew you up. There's no need for you to suffer." His voice was soulful. It was difficult to disbelieve a voice like that, which bled warmth and sincerity. Every word was music. Vascula thought that Allen Morphol's voice might have helped him win his Games. His voice, and his looks. And his capacity for incredible cruelty and violence.

Still, she reached for the doorknob and unlocked the door and pulled it open. "Come in," she said, waving him towards the kitchen with the blade of her knife. "Don't try anything. It's been a long day for me."

He sat himself in a seat at the table, back ramrod straight. His posture was perfect. _He's wonderful,_ thought Vascula. Physical perfection, if anything like that existed.

She settled in the seat across from him. The knife she set on the table by her hand, close enough to keep her fingertips pressed to the grip. She'd already pulled off her shirt when cleaning the wound, so she swiveled a bit so he could see it. He leaned towards her; she could feel his breath on her side. "This should not be difficult," he said. He'd brought a small black bag with him, which he unzipped. Inside were several sets of sutures. He selected one with slender fingers and peeled it free from the packaging. "You've been through worse, I expect."

"Yes," said Vascula. Her eyes were fixed on his hands as he lowered them to the wound and set to work. Vascula's expression remained impassive as the needle pierced one jagged flap of skin over the wound. But she felt it, the hot lancing sting of the needle impaling flesh. She wanted to pull away. Instead she relaxed in the seat and rested her chin in her hand. She stared resolutely at the needle, dipping in and out, in and out. "Why are you doing this?" she asked.

He paused, and glanced up from his work. His eyes were enormous. "I only want to help," he said.

She recognized those words from his Games. They hadn't ended well for the people involved. She was acutely aware of the thread he had in his hand, the thread that trailed from the neat sutures he'd sewed into her flesh. She considered driving her foot into his perfect face, but instead stayed very still and watched him work. His lips were thinned in concentration; his slender hands plucked at the string like the hands of a harpist drawing out a melody.

"Abraham wanted to welcome you to the Victor's Village _,"_ said Allen, words dripping into the silence like blood soaking through a wooden floorboard. "That was his strategy. This is mine."

She frowned. "Strategy," she said. "Is this a competition?"

"The Games never end," said Allen, pulling on a thread hard enough to make her squirm, just a bit. "We're all still playing." He glanced up at her. Their faces were very close, so close that a strand of her black hair fell against his high cheekbone. He did not brush it away. "Every month there's a challenge," he said. Then he pulled away and went back to suturing. She was grateful, and disappointed. "This month, our challenge is to welcome you to the program. The judges will decide who the most successful Victor was. And the least successful." He reached for his black bag and pulled out a small pair of scissors. "Next month, you'll be a player too," he said, pulling the thread taut. The scissors flashed.

"All done," said Allen Morphol. He did not stand up. Instead he continued to stare at the wound in her side. "Did you feel it?" he asked, reaching out to trail his fingertips along the line of thread.

"No," said Vascula. Pain fanned out from where his fingers brushed the stitches.

"Of course." His hand lingered for a moment. Then it fell to his lap. "Victors experience pain differently than anyone else. I've seen that firsthand." He got to his feet and scooped his tools back into his black bag. "Welcome to the program, Vascula," he said, smiling, beautiful. "We'll be seeing more of each other very soon."

She watched him go, and remembered the handsome boy in the 127th Hunger Games. So beautiful, so easily trusted. What he'd done to his allies, in a stinking cave underneath his arena, was still Hunger Games legend. They didn't release the footage easily, but in District Two there'd been a copy. She remembered his knives and his needles, and his beautiful, manic face. Promising that it was all for a better cause. Arms up to the elbow slick with red.

He closed the door behind him on his way out. Vascula ran her fingers over the thread, over and over again. _Welcome to the Victor's Village_ , she thought. _The Games never end._


	3. Prologue: In Which Jetta Bakes a Cake

**Hello all, and welcome to the final prologue chapter of _Long Way Down!_ Next chapter I'll start introducing tributes... hoo boy. This SYOT is still OPEN, but I'm only looking for one more tribute. I'll mark the story as closed as soon as I get them, so if you're seeing this and the story still says OPEN, no one's submitted one yet and I would love it if you would! Thanks fam**

 **Also, to everyone who's had a reserved spot for a while, I would greatly appreciate if you could get your tribute in to me very soon! I've been writing ahead, but I can't do that anymore until I get the rest of my tributes in. Thanks so much!**

 **Hope y'all enjoy this chapter! Get hyped to meet your tributes next chapter!**

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 _You're watching_ Victor's Village, _where your favorite Victors live together, laugh together, and bounce back from incredible trauma together! In last night's episode, Allen Morphol of District Three did his best to welcome newest Victor Vascula Phalanx to the program. In this episode, we'll see Jetta Greene of District Twelve give it her best shot!_

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 **Vascula Phalanx, 18  
District Two Female, Victor of the 147th Hunger Games**

Vascula opened her front door before the person behind it could get more than a few feet away down the front path. She leaned on the door jam and crossed her arms over her chest. "District Twelve," she said, looking at the woman who'd swiveled around with wide eyes. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"What?" said the Victor from District Twelve, whose name escaped Vascula at the moment. "No." She turned more fully around. In the twilight, all Vascula could see were the whites of her eyes and her sticklike silhouette. "You should watch out, though" she said. "I left a cake on your doorstep. Don't trip on it." She took a few steps towards Vascula. "I'm not Abraham," she said. "I wouldn't try to kill you for ratings." She let out a short, bleating laugh. "Actually," she said. "I don't think Abraham was even trying to kill you. You'd be in worse shape if he had been."

"I don't know about that," said Vascula. She crouched and felt in the darkness for the cake tin. "Thank you," she said, standing.

District Twelve waited in the darkness. "Sorry," she said. "I wasn't… I thought you probably didn't want to socialize so much after the day you've had. Allen Morphol visited you, right?" She rubbed at a spot on the back of her neck. "That must've been something."

"Yes," said Vascula. She pressed a hand to her side. Her wound throbbed at the pressure. "He did me a service."

"Oh boy," said District Twelve. "I'm not sure I want to know what you mean by that."

"He stitched a wound for me," said Vascula. She sniffed at the cake in her hands. It smelled like chocolate. "What did you think I meant?"

District Twelve walked closer. They were now at a conversational distance. "Allen is… You're new here. You'll figure it out soon. Once you've met us all." She thrust her hand into the space between them. "I'm Jetta Greene. District 12. 130th Games."

"Vascula Phalanx. District Two. 147th." Vascula balanced the cake tin one hand, shook Jetta's hand with the other. Jetta was now close enough to see through the gathering dark. Her brown hair was a mass of curls that framed a face so white that Vascula could see the veins in her cheeks. Dark liquid dripped from one of her nostrils and gathered on her upper lip. "Your nose is bleeding," said Vascula.

"Oh shit," said Jetta, swiveling to face the street. Her spine bulged through her thin cotton shirt. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a white cloth square, which she pressed to her nose with one hand. When she turned back around, the handkerchief obscured the bottom half of her face. It was hard to make out her expression. "Sorry," she said. "I have a disorder. It makes me bleed."

"They didn't fix it for you," said Vascula.

"No," said Jetta. "It's a hereditary illness. I didn't acquire it in my Games. Also it made me something of a fan favorite, so once I won nobody wanted to correct it." She pressed the handkerchief more viciously into her nose. "Sometimes I cough up blood," she said, voice muffled by the cloth. "But I don't think I'll die from it. That wouldn't make for good television."

"I suppose not," said Vascula. She glanced over her own shoulder, into the cavernous darkness of her parlor. "Do you want to sit down?" she said.

"Oh, no thanks," said Jetta, rolling her wrist to dab at the blood. "I didn't want to impose. It's only your first day. This place can be overwhelming." She peered around Vascula, into the empty house. "You know they film everything, right? Everywhere. This whole conversation will be on television. Minus this bit where I acknowledge that fact."

"I know," said Vascula. "My mentor told me." She drummed her fingers against the cake tin. "There's only one camera that I can see."

"That one's probably for show. There are more, believe me." Jetta grimaced, tilted her head back, and pinched her nose shut with the handkerchief. "Sorry," she said. Her voice was nasal and distorted. "The bleeding's getting worse. Sometimes that happens."

"You can come inside," said Vascula, but Jetta was already backing away.

"No," she said, "You should rest before the others try to welcome you. It'll be a weird month." She stopped walking for a moment and smiled. Vascula could just about make out the expression from under the handkerchief. "Enjoy the cake," Jetta said. "Welcome to the Victor's Village."

When Jetta was far enough away that Vascula felt confident she wouldn't collapse on her way home, Vascula closed her door and brought the cake into the kitchen and ate the entire thing with her fingers. Then she went to the bathroom and threw up three times. _It's all on TV,_ she thought, wiping her lips clean of vomit with the back of her hand. _Until I mentor a winning female tribute from District Two. All on camera. All the time._ Her stomach roiled, and she clutched at the toilet seat until the spasm passed. _Happy Hunger Games,_ she thought, _and welcome to the Victor's Village._ Somewhere in the corner, she thought she saw the flash of a tiny camera swiveling and zooming to catch her expression. Just for a moment.


	4. Pre-Reapings: In Which Lives are Lived

**Hey guys, and welcome to the first tribute chapter of _Long Way Down!_ I'm hella tired so this AN is gonna be short, but basically this is the first of 8 Capitol chapters that will detail our tribute's time before the arena. Each tribute will get 2 POVs in these chapters, which I'm hoping will be plenty to develop them all! I would do more for each but I really like this format so I'm sticking with it, hope that's all good/you enjoy the chapter!**

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 **Jackson "Jax" Brooks, 17  
** **District Four Male**

 _I'm gonna puke,_ thought Jax. A moment later a spasm in his stomach forced him double at the waist. He clawed blindly in front of him, and snagged a warm, slightly sweaty palm. Then he vomited into the sand. His eyes streamed; his throat burned. When he straightened up he thought the worst might be over, but he still felt the cotton in his head and the lethargy in his limbs.

"By the Capitol," said Lance. "I _told_ you not to take nine shots. I told you, bubble brain."

Jax squeezed Lance's hand as another spasm tore through his gut. "If this is how I die," he said, "I want you to know that I care about you very much and I want to have your children." His legs gave out and he fell onto the sand, which was warm from the heat of the night. "This is true love," he said, inching away from the puddle of vomit. "True love right here."

"Lucky me," said Lance, sitting cross-legged beside him. "Nah, though. I'm too sober for this to be true love."

"Drink!" said Jax, flipping onto his side and crawling into Lance's lap. "By the Capitol, drink right now!" His brown eyes glittered in the dark. "Nobody sober here to _night_ , baby!"

" _No!"_ said Lance, incredulous, grinning. Jax reached for his face, fumbled at it, until Lance grabbed his arms and flipped him over and kissed him on the forehead. "I love you," he said, "But I also hate you a lot right now and I'm scared you're going to puke on me."

"Would that turn you on?"

"No. No, it wouldn't." Lance's dark skin was beaded with sweat. The air around them was hot and dry, and didn't stir, even as the waves lapped at the sand a few feet from their toes. Jax reached out across the sand, dug his fingers into it, searching. He found Lance's warm palm after a moment, and covered it. Then he smiled, and closed his eyes.

"This is so nice," he said. "So nice." He took a breath in through his nose. "I especially love that you can still smell my vomit because there's no breeze to blow away the smell. _Pure. Romance."_

"I'll drown you," said Lance.

Jax wriggled, so that the pressure of Lance's shin on the back of his head was better alleviated. His red hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. "I'm _so gross_ right now," he said, reaching up towards the sky with one heavy hand. _I can touch the stars,_ he thought, swiping his thumb over a twinkling spot in the pool of indigo over his head. _They're here,_ he thought, _They're now. All the stars._

"I bet I smell real bad," he said. "Do I? Huh, Lance?"

"You puked all over yourself twice at that party," said Lance. "So yeah. Plus, you have a working nose, so I'm questioning why you can't answer that question for yourself."

"I'm drunk!" said Jax.

"Yeah, I know."

Jax squeezed at Lance's hand. "You know how many girls tried to hook up with me tonight?" he said. " _Three. Three._ It was _aww-ful._ Awful. _Yuck."_ He stuck out his tongue, and pulled it back between his teeth as his stomach rumbled. "I should tell them," he said, rocking slightly from side to side. "I should tell 'em all."

 _"No,_ you shouldn't," said Lance. "Let's remember our mantra, shall we? Jax's parents are dicks…"

"So I can't mention how much I like dicks," said Jax automatically. "Ha ha, I'm so funny and clever." He paused. "Because I made that up. It was funny. Right?"

"You," said Lance, leaning over and pressing his lips to Jax's forehead, "Are just the funniest." His mouth was cool and wet, and Jax shivered and tilted his head back. They bumped cheekbones, and Jax snickered. Then their lips met, and he stopped snickering.

When he pulled away, enough blood had risen to his cheeks that his tanned skin had flushed scarlet. "Capitol," said Jax, rolling off Lance's lap. "You're good at that."

"Well, I've had plenty of practice," said Lance. He snagged a strand of Jax's red hair between his finger and thumb. "Hey," he said, "While you're drunk. You're still planning on volunteering this year?"

Jax groaned, and rolled onto his back to look at the stars. The sand was gentle on the back of his neck. "Hunger Games this, Hunger Games that. You sound like my mother. It's _not_ a sexy look on you, no offense."

"Offense taken," said Lance. He scooted to Jax's level and laid down beside him. They tilted their heads towards the stars. "Seriously, though," said Lance. "Thoughts?"

"Probably," said Jax. His eyeballs itched. The sand molded itself around him. "Mom's really pushing me about it, you know?" He traced the stars with his thumb again and closed one brown eye so that he had no depth perception, and it was like the stars were close enough to hold. "It's kinda intense. But imagine how cute my butt's gonna look on television."

"Personally I think your butt looks better here where other people aren't trying to murder it," Lance muttered. "You know I'll support you whatever you do, Jax. And that includes staying here in Four and _not_ leaving me to win some stupid crown and then be on that dumbass television show until you manage to mentor another winning tribute."

"Excuse me," said Jax. " _Victor's Village_ is a national treasure, you plebian."

"Rude," said Lance.

"For real," said Jax, digging his heels into the sand. "I'm gonna be fine. I've been training for years, you know, I'm not some starving District kid who only wants to go home to their family and continue to live their one hundred percent innocent and unassuming life!" Then he winced. "Oof. I _am_ drunk."

"Come on," said Lance, wrapping his hand around Jax's waist. "I'm dragging you home."

" _Noo,"_ said Jax, "If my parents see you they're gonna kick me out again. I'm not trying to be homeless at this point in the game, come _onnn…"_

"Oh boo hoo," said Lance. "I'll figure something out." He pulled Jax to his feet. "C'mon, you big lump," he said. "You're not drunk enough that you can't walk."

"I dunno about that," said Jax, limp. "Carry me."

"You're the worst," said Lance, hooking him underneath the arms to drag him across the sand. "I change my mind. Volunteer for the Hunger Games so I can stop looking after your drunk ass."

Jax half-closed his eyes. "You don't mean that!" he said.

"No," said Lance. "I don't."

* * *

 **Delta Gigabyte, 16  
** **District Three Female**

She jerked awake, spluttering, blinking stinging cold water out of her eyes. _Fuck!_ she thought, scrambling to her feet, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands to get the water out. _What the hell was that?_

At her feet, the children scrambled to shake their wet clothes dry, while Gylfie rocketed up and stuck his gangly arms out in front of him. His hands were clenched in two slightly trembling fists. _Ready for all takers,_ thought Delta, wanting to smile for a moment, unable to help the rush of affection.

She was impassive instead. The nest of old newspapers the children had been sleeping on was melting from the water, dissolving into a puddle of fibers and pulp. The air in District Three was crisp and chill, and nipped at the wet skin underneath her sweater. The ends of her curly hair dripped water onto her shivering shoulders.

At the end of the alley, morning light beckoned. Where they had been sleeping was dark, protected from the sun by a row of tall buildings on either side, buildings crammed with enough air conditioners and water pipes that most sunlight was blocked long before it fell to the street below.

A door on one of these buildings stood open, in between Delta and the end of the alley. In the threshold of this door was a squat older woman holding a metal bucket in both hands. Delta could see residual water sloshing in the bottom of the bucket. It fell from the metal rim onto the street.

"You all need to go," said the woman, kneeling down to place the bucket on the threshold of her door. It clunked against the pavement. "Three days is too long. I can't have this."

"We're homeless," said Delta. "There's nowhere _to_ go."

The woman glared. "Children can't be homeless here. There's the Community Home."

"The Community Home is worthless," said Delta. "There are too many mouths to feed and not enough people willing to do the feeding." She took a step forward. "One of these kids came from the Community Home. When I found him he was so thin he'd broken an arm falling onto it. It was like a snapped twig." She felt the warm pressure on her ankle of Gadget grabbing onto her, trembling and remembering the time before they'd met. "We're not hurting you," said Delta. "We just sleep here. We don't steal and we don't make noise."

"You block up this alley and make it difficult to throw away the trash," said the woman. "Seeing you makes the children in both of these buildings uncomfortable."

Delta frowned, very slightly. "I haven't seen any children," she said. "And I'm sure we would never have done something to frighten a child."

At her side, Gylfie lowered his arms. His brown hair was slick to his forehead. "She's lying, Delta," said Gylfie. "She's trying to make you feel bad."

The woman grimaced. "I don't have to lie _or_ make you feel bad," she said. "The fact remains that you children have no right to be here. We need you gone, and if you _aren't_ gone in the next hour, I'm calling the Peacekeepers. They'll sort you out."

Delta narrowed her brown eyes into slits. "I've been _sorted_ by the Peacekeepers before," she said. Her voice was low and rough. "And I'm still here."

The woman didn't budge. "Out of the alley," she said. "Next hour. I _will_ call them." She picked up her bucket. "You're a drain on this District," she said. "Better that you weren't here."

"What an example you're setting for your children _now,"_ said Delta, but the woman had already closed the door in between them.

The children had drawn into a huddle, except for Gadget, who still clung to her legs. Tesla and Statica glared and trembled in the direction of the door that the woman had shut. Watt sat with his legs crossed and his fists clenched in his lap. She could see a vein pulsing in his temple. _Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

"I'm so sorry," said Delta. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could have done better than that."

"It's not your fault," said Watt, without looking at her. "You're right about the Community Home, Delta."

" _Yeah!"_ said Statica. "That old lady _sucks."_

Gylfie put a hand on her shoulder. The pit of her stomach felt warm. Her shoulder tingled where he touched it. "Really, Delta, it's not your fault," he said. "That _bit—_ er, that bad woman—she would've kicked us out no matter what you did." He squeezed her shoulder. "There's nothing we can do."

The corners of her mouth lifted, just for a moment. "Right," she said, "Well." She knelt down and ran her fingers through Gadget's scruffy blonde hair. "Okay, everyone," she said. "Gylfie's going to take you all down to the square so you can try and dry out your clothes in the sun. How does that sound?"

"Good," said Tesla, who was still shivering violently.

"Good!" said Delta. She stood again. "I'm staying here."

"Absolutely not," said Gylfie. "No. No way. Not a chance."

"I absolutely _am,"_ said Delta. "I'm not going anywhere. Not for her. Not for anybody. Besides, she might be bluffing about the Peacekeepers."

She could see the fight draining out of Gylfie's eyes. _I'll never give in,_ she thought. _He knows it. So he doesn't fight. That's smart._

"Okay, kids," he said, herding the children to their feet. "We're going to the square." He tossed a glance over his shoulder at her. "Be careful," he said. "If I don't see you by sunset I'll know they tossed you in the slammer again. Yeah?"

"Yeah," said Delta, leaning against the alley wall. "See you."

"See you." She watched as he herded the children to the far end of the alley, where the sunlight beckoned them. In the dark, her wet sweater cleaved to her body. Gooseflesh crawled up and down her torso.

When they turned the corner out of sight, she made her way deeper into the alley, found a dusty glass bottle, and hurled it as hard as she could at the wall. It shattered as she dug her nails into her palm and whispered " _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,"_ over and over again, a mantra. " _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."_

By the time the Peacekeepers came, she'd calmed down, and was sitting in the nest of ruined newspaper, with her back against the wall. She watched the three of them advance down the alley and made no move to stand. All three were scowling. They'd met her before.

"Hello again," said Delta, arching her back and yawning. "I see that the long arm of the law is once again here and ready to beat the snot out of me." She raised an eyebrow. "Is this what they train you people to do down in District Two? Abuse orphans?"

"No," said one of the Peacekeepers. "You're a special case." His lunged for her and grabbed her by the front of her sweater, and drove his other fist into her stomach. "Not so smug now," he said, as she sputtered.

The fists came down on her head. She still felt the littlest bit smug.

* * *

 **Jasper Alba, 17  
** **District Seven Female**

The splintering scream that the tree made as it fell startled Jasper so much that she didn't move out of the way. She stared at the tree, thinking, _That wasn't supposed to happen,_ and then, _Oh Capitol, what do I do, is it gonna hit me or should I get out of the way—_

It hit her. When she got her bearings again she was stunned by the enormous pressure of the tree against her back. She was on her stomach, which was pressed into the dirt. The points of her hips dug into the ground. She could feel a twig stabbing through her cargo pants and into her inner thigh.

She managed a huff of air through lungs that felt squashed and flattened. _How big was this tree?_ she thought. _Not very big or I'd probably be dead._ She tried to get her arms underneath herself so she could push herself up, but every effort left her arms limp and aching. _Rats,_ she thought, drumming her fists helplessly against the ground.

A pair of boots stepped into her limited view. All she could see was a slice of District Seven forest; dirt, trees stretching into an overcast sky, the occasional bird flittering through foliage. And now boots. _David,_ she thought, wheezing. _Get me out of here. Please._

"Oh, _Capitol,"_ said David. A moment later she felt him tugging at the branches of the tree. There was a tiny shift in pressure. Not enough. "I'm so sorry," David babbled. "Shit, Jasper, it was my fault, I didn't notice you were behind the thing when I was chopping. Oh shit." He squeezed her shoulder. "You're alright, though. Right?"

She coughed. " _Y—yeah,"_ she whimpered. Blood pounded behind her eyes. " _Help. Me."_

"Right. Right." David stepped back, scratched his chin. "I'll get the overseer," he said. "Couple of big guys should be more than enough for this."

" _Daay-vid,"_ Jasper gurgled.

"Only for a few minutes." He shuffled his feet. "So sorry, Jasper. I'll make sure you get extra pay for this, I—I'm going. Back before you know it."

 _No,_ she thought. Then his boots backed away. Then he was gone.

Every breath was uncertain. She stared at her slice of District Seven. There were no birds now. David must have scared them away when he'd run to find the overseer. The leaves shivered. There hadn't been snow yet, but she knew it was coming. She could feel it in the chill of the air, in the way she hadn't seen the sun in days. It was coming.

 _Hurry back, David,_ she thought, digging her fingers into the dirt. _I can't feel my toes._

David would blame himself. She took another shuddering, creaking breath and felt the tree scraping along against her spine. _It's not really his fault,_ she thought. _It was a freak accident. Accidents happen out here._ She let her head fall into the dirt, so that her chin was buried in it. Her dark brown hair fell in ringlets over her heaving shoulders. _I probably could've gotten out of the way in time,_ she thought. _I was thinking too much about it._

Still! She saw trees falling down all the time, but there'd been something about this one, tall and white-barked and bearing down on her with a force and speed that felt insurmountable. As it had struck her on the back, there'd been an intense second where she'd thought, _I could actually die from this._

But she wasn't dead. Things could be worse. Things could always be worse.

"Hey! Jasper!" The voices sounded fractured and far away. "Hey!" Getting closer. She wheezed out a reply, but it had such little breath behind it that even she didn't really know what she'd said. "There she is!" There were several sets of work boots now, and they pounded into the clearing to surround her. Warm relief traveled up and down her spine. _He didn't just leave me,_ she thought. She'd hardly been conscious that she was worried he would. _He really brought them back. Thank you, David._

"We're gonna get this thing off you," said David, off somewhere behind her. "Everybody ready?" A chorus of assents. Jasper closed her eyes and clenched her fists. _It'll work,_ she thought.

"Now!" And suddenly she could breathe again. She arched her back and pain flared out through her ribs. _Crap,_ she thought, and she rolled to the side and away from the men who'd hoisted the tree into the air. She felt the ground tremble as they dropped it again.

Jasper rolled onto her back and heaved great gulping breaths through her open mouth. David had trotted to her side and was kneeling, slipping one hand underneath her to help her sit up. She wriggled into an upright position and took a few more gasping breaths. She felt lightheaded. But alive.

She smiled. "Thank you, David," she said. Her voice still whistled when she spoke. "For getting the overseer. For coming back for me."

"Of course," said David, black eyes huge. "It was my fault. I dropped that thing onto you."

Stiffly, she shook her head. Her neck ached, but in a few days she was confident she would be back to normal. "Not your fault. It was an accident," she said.

He ducked his head. "Well, I'm sorry, no matter what you say."

Gently she shook his arms away from her and crawled to her feet. Then she walked to the tree that had pinned her. She bent over and ran her fingers across the bark, which was rough and slightly warm where she'd been pressed beneath it. _You almost got me,_ she thought. _But today wasn't my day, huh?_

The birds had begun to sing again. _Back to normal,_ she thought, _And back to work._ And she went hunting through the underbrush for her axe.

* * *

 **Flax Newell, 17  
** **District Eight Female**

 _Wait for Judith at the factory, honey,_ Mother had said. And Flax had tried. But as she stood in the long narrow hallway that led from the factory floor to the outside, and saw the endless stream of people coming in and out, with inks and dyes on their gnarled fingers, her stomach twisted and her palms sweated. So she found a door that she'd found once before, when she waited here for her younger sister, and plunged down the steps beyond.

The basement was smaller than Flax would have expected, and full to bursting with strange metallic machines that pumped and groaned and bellowed steam. She crept past them all as she had the last time she'd been down here. Her dress fluttered and snapped at the stockings on her knees. The air in the basement was hot and wet. The walls dripped and bled condensation in rivulets. _It's loud_ , thought Flax, _where's the place I was last time?_

There. In one corner of the basement, someone had built a nest of thick blankets and furs. She got on her hands and knees on the cold cracked basement floor and wriggled into the nest, which had been set up inside a small alcove in the wall. The pneumatic groaning from the strange machines was reduced to a softer churning sound that was more easily ignored. Flax pressed herself against the softness of one of the blankets, stroking patterns into the fur. _That's better_ , she thought.

Her blue eyes were half-lidded. _Judith will know I'm here_ , she thought. _Since I was here last time_. She drew her knees in towards her chest and wrapped her arms around them. _I could work here_ , she thought, but the familiar panic rose up in her stomach and threatened to choke her. _No. Too many people. Too loud._

Flax leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes completely. _I wish I wasn't this way_ , she thought, as her heart thudded in her chest. When she got like this, she could really feel her heart, the way it twisted and pumped like the machines outside. Her temples glittered with sweat. _I want to be normal. Like everybody else._

As her lips twisted into a grimace, she heard a sharp clatter from the basement. She froze, cocking her head. Even with the muffling blankets, there was footsteps, hard clacking footsteps. She was sure of it. She eased herself as far from the blanketed entrance of the nest as she could. The sweat on her palms was cold.

All at once the blankets were shifted aside. Light speared into the space, and Flax grimaced and held up a hand to shield her eyes. "Oh shit," said a voice, and her stomach churned. "Didn't know someone else was in here!"

She heard the blankets fell back into place and opened her eyes. A boy had crawled into the alcove and was grinning at her with a mouthful of missing and cracked teeth. He had brought the acid-stink of dye in with him, and her eyes watered and she turned away for a moment to cough into her arm.

"You don't work here!" said the boy. "Where'd you come from?"

"I'm waiting for my sister," said Flax, trying to smile. Her cheeks ached.

"Oh! Cool," said the boy. "She tell you about this place?"

"No," said Flax. She crossed her legs at the ankles and tried to keep her expression neutral.

The boy raised his eyebrows. "Ah," he said. "Okay." He scratched his elbow. "Us workers, uh, we tell each other about it. So we can get away from the stink for a little bit." He smiled again. "My name's Paule," he said. "Nice to meet ya!"

"Flax," she said. The word tumbled out.

"What?" he said.

"That's my name." Color rose to her cheeks. _Go away_ , she thought. _Please_.

"Well, nice to meet you again," he said. For a moment he stared at one of the blankets. Then he reached for it and brushed his fingers along an exposed seam. "I made this one," he said. "It's down here because it's not perfect. Nobody'd buy it like this, right?" He giggled. "Got in a lot of trouble for it, though."

"Oh," said Flax, squirming very slightly. She stared at a spot on Paule's neck and refused to raise her eyes any higher to meet his. "That's, um, that's terrible."

"That's okay!" said Paule. "I shouldn't've made the mistake. That's _my_ fault." Then he sucked in his bottom lip. "But it doesn't actually look that bad, though, now that I'm looking at it down here." He leaned towards her, and when she tried to lean back her head skidded against the blanket on the far wall. "What do you think?" said Paule, pulling the blanket a bit closer for her to inspect.

Sweating, she made a show of glancing over the blanket. Then she attempted another smile. This one really ached. "Nice!" she said. "Er, I mean, it's nice. Yeah."

"Thanks!" He dropped it and watched as it shifted back into place. "Working in the factory's not so good, Flax," he said, still staring at the blanket. His hands twisted in his lap. When she looked at them, they were gnarled and ink-dyed and scabbing in a dozen places. "You should look out for your sister," he said. "If she's not a good worker it could get really dicey for her up there." He hunched his shoulders. "I'm not even supposed to be down here," he admitted, "But the overseers don't really know about it. Keep it on the down low, alright, Flax?"

"Sure," said Flax. She was fascinated by his hands. She could see the bones moving under too-tight skin every time he drummed a finger. _Do your hands hurt?_ She wanted to say it. But the words, as they often did, crowded up in the back of her throat and choked her and made her sweat. She settled into the blankets and looked away. She said nothing.

More footsteps from outside the blankets. Paule stiffened and peered through a small gap between them. Then he relaxed and yanked a blanket aside. "Judith!" he said. "Is this your sister?"

The tension bled out of Flax, and she flipped onto her hands and knees to crawl out of the little nest. "Hi, Judith," she said. "How was your day?"

"Fine." Her younger sister extended a hand and pulled her to her feet. Then she set her hands on her hips and smirked down at Paule. "Hope _this_ guy wasn't bothering you."

"What!" said Paule. "I was being a gentleman!" He giggled, and after a moment Judith did too.

"He's nice," said Flax, standing a bit behind Judith.

"Oh hey, thanks!" said Paule. He smiled up at her. "See you around, then, Flax! Bye Judith." He winked and let the blankets fall back into place, obscuring him from view.

"C'mon," said Flax, made uncomfortable by the grinding and the steam from the machines around them. "Let's get out of here."

"I'm with you," said Judith, whose skin was beaded with sweat and who stunk of acid-dye. "I need to get home. This place is hell."

 _It is,_ Flax thought. _It really is._

* * *

 **Clover Forney, 16  
** **District Eleven Female**

"Today," said Miss Florentine, walking a line between the rows of cots, "You're going to be trying a face cream called _BlemishBeGone."_ Her path was preternaturally straight, as though she'd mapped it out with a yardstick before she walked it. "As most of you know," she said, "Your job is simply to apply the cream and report any and all sensations you experience on the form you've been given." She attempted a smile, but as usual only one side of her lips turned up. The right side remained in a drooping snarl. _A stroke,_ was the official stance on the matter, but Clover Forney was no fool, and she knew with a burning certainty that Miss Florentine's face had been paralyzed in a similar circumstance to the one Clover was currently in.

She reached for the clipboard resting next to her on the cot and turned it over and over in her hands. _Okay,_ she thought, _I know that this one's gonna be bad, because the last batch of kids that tested this thing haven't been around. Ten to one they're in the infirmary. Or worse._ She scraped her fingernails against the paper on the clipboard. Shivers crawled up her spine. _I'm not testing this,_ she thought. _Absolutely not. Doesn't matter if it's not fatal. I can't afford any kind of weakness, not in this place. Not in Eleven._

If she raised her hand and asked to be excused from this one, Miss Florentine would point out that she would be receiving a small stipend from the Capitol for her willingness to cooperate, and that most people in Eleven never got chances like this. If she pressed the matter, she would be reminded, quite firmly, that she'd agreed to this when she signed the contract that allowed her to live in the community home.

 _The thing is, though,_ Clover thought, drumming her fingers against the clipboard, _I didn't_ elect _to come live here. And they didn't exactly give me a chance to read the fine print._

She glanced at the cot to her right. Briony sat hunched at the edge of the cot, peering out from behind her cracked glasses, grimacing towards the end of the row. Miss Florentine had begun scooping little white tubs out of a large cardboard box. Each was emblazoned with _BlemishBeGone_ in swooping purple script. When Briony saw Clover looking, she leaned over and said, "That's gonna burn our faces off, isn't it?"

"It might," said Clover. "But we're not going to find out."

Her brown eyes darted from one end of the row to the other. Miss Florentine had pressed little white tubs into the hands of the first several children, who were unscrewing the caps. _If she gives us those tubs, we'll have no excuse to not slather it on,_ Clover thought. _I have about three minutes._

"Okay, Briony," said Clover. "I've got it. When she gives you the tub, you'll open it, and make like you're slathering it on your face. Don't, though, just spit and rub that on instead. For the shiny look."

"Okay," said Briony, fidgeting, "But what happens when our faces don't scald? If that's what's supposed to happen?" Already faint moans from the farthest cots were audible. "And what happens when she notices our tubs have been untouched?"

Miss Florentine had moved closer. There were five beds in between her and Briony. Clover clenched her fists and whispered, "Just stick your fingers down the back of your throat. If you can puke on the tub she won't touch it. If you threaten to keep puking she'll send you to the infirmary. I'll do the same."

"Oh no, _"_ said Briony. "I'm not forcing myself to throw up—"

" _Do_ it," Clover hissed. "It's the only way. Don't think, just _do._ "

"I—" Briony fell silent as Miss Florentine pressed a white tub in her hands. Behind her glasses, her dark eyes were uncertain. _Do it,_ Clover thought, reaching for her own tub. _You need to do it, or it's nobody's fault you got scalded but your own._

Miss Florentine handed Clover the tub. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed at the smooth opaque white cream. It smelled like citrus. Acidic. As she held it to her nose, she opened her mouth and drooled into her palm. Then she dipped the fingers of her other hand into the saliva, and smeared it across her forehead. Miss Florentine was already focusing on another child; all Clover needed at this point was for her forehead to seem as slick with product as everyone else's.

Then she plunged her saliva-coated fingers into the back of her throat with as much force as she could muster. Immediately the back of her throat closed up around the intruders. The muscles in her gut clenched and she bit down at her fingers. She felt a nail scrape the soft skin at the back of her throat.

That did it. She tore her fingers free and hunched over at the same time Miss Florentine turned around. Clover opened her mouth and heaved, holding the tub out in front of her enough that it was soaked, and then dropping it into the growing pool of sick. " _Agh!"_ she said. " _It hurts—agh—my face—"_ The same complaints she was hearing from further down the row. "Gonna be sick again—"

"Oh dear!" Miss Florentine was saying, waving her hands, "Clover, _don't_ you puke again in here—get out, infirmary, have them see about your face, you've _ruined_ your BlemishBeGone!" Clover stumbled to her feet, clutching at her face with hands that stunk of vomit, thinking _She won't look too closely when I'm like this._ And she didn't.

When Clover made it to the door, she tossed a glance over her shoulder. Briony had covered her face in _something—_ whether it was spittle or BlemishBeGone was hard to say. Most other children seemed to be in great pain in the face, and Briony was so far not reacting. As Clover watched, she cast a quick glance at Miss Florentine and, when the woman's back was turned, shoved her fingers into the back of her throat.

As Briony dropped the tub and her throat began to swell with vomit, Clover turned and slipped out of the dormitory. _Not too hard,_ she thought, clasping her stinking hands together. _Good girl, Briony._ The door clicked shut behind her, and the wailing in the dormitory quieted to a whimper. Clover grinned for a moment. Then she headed for the infirmary.


	5. Reapings: In Which Things Get Rough

**Hey guys! Don't have much to say except I hope you enjoy the Reapings chapter! We'll have met pretty much half our tributes after this chapter is done. Yay!**

* * *

 **Tucker Marque, 12  
** **District Six Male**

Tucker reached for the bowl of oatmeal and slid it across the table so that the contents sloshed over the sides. As he ladled oatmeal into his dish, he screwed up his face and glanced over at his mother. "Hey, Mom," he said. "I think I'm gonna volunteer for the Hunger Games."

She had been sitting slouched in her chair, stirring her breakfast listlessly with her spoon. At his words she straightened up. A look of alarm stole across her face. "Tucker," she said, "I know you're not serious."

"No, Mom, listen." He scooped a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. _Mom's oatmeal is good,_ he thought, _Wish she made it more often._ "So, I volunteer for the Games. _Then,_ I win."

"Tucker," she said.

" _Then,_ I'm a star on _Victor's Village,_ and also I'm the youngest Victor _ever._ Nobody's ever been younger than fourteen I'm pretty sure. I'd be super famous, super rich, super popular in the Capitol. Basically a Career, but younger and more exciting and fresh. Trust me, the Capitol would be _all about it._ It's practically a done deal!" He shoveled a few more scoops of oatmeal into his mouth. "This is really good, by the way," he said.

"You're joking, right?" said his mother warily. "Please, Tucker, today of all days this isn't funny."

"No, it _is_ really good!" Her expression tightened, and he held up both hands and said, "Sorry, sorry. But think about it, Mom. You wouldn't need to work so hard anymore. You could relax a bit!" He leaned across the table and, on an impulse, squeezed his mother's hand. "And it would get me the hell out of District Six for a little while. It would be like an adventure."

"You've watched the Games, haven't you?" said his mother. She was frowning, although she squeezed his hand back. "Don't you remember last year, Tucker? With Vascula?"

"Sure!" said Tucker. He remembered Vascula very well. Short, small, impassive. "When I win the Games I'm gonna ask her to marry me. Think she'll say yes?"

"She killed ten people," said his mother. "She killed _both_ tributes from District Six." His mother was frowning, as she stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. "For all we know, another Vascula will volunteer this year. Or an Allen Morphol, or an Enver Marrington, or a Marr Garcia. You don't want to be anywhere near those kinds of people, honey. They play to win."

There was a knock on the door. Tucker leaped to his feet. "That's my friends!" he said, tearing his hand free. He leaned across the table to kiss his mother on the cheek. "Don't worry, Mom," he said, "If it wigs you out so much I guess I could postpone my plans. What do you think about next year?"

"Never, Tucker," she said. But she was smiling, relieved.

On the train ride to the reapings square, Tucker found himself crammed between his three best friends, elbows and knees pressing into him from all sides, hot breath flowing over any exposed skin as the dozens of other children in the train car grappled their nerves. "When I volunteer next year I'll definitely win," he was saying, leaning on one of the walls for balance. "Plus I'll be the youngest Victor ever."

"In your dreams, brainless," said Bentley, rolling his eyes. "You couldn't kill a fly. You _definitely_ couldn't kill another _kid."_

"No, I could," said Tucker, thinking of Vascula, of the cold dead _nothing_ in her eyes when she fed her sword into the soft parts of her enemies. Her victims. "I'm Victor material," he said, shaking his head, shaking away the image. "I could do it."

"Hmm," said Dakota. "I don't know, Tucker." She grinned, gap-toothed. "If you're confident, why not try this year?"

"Oh, I totally would," said Tucker. "But my mom is too worried. I can't freak her out like that, even if it's only for a few weeks while I'm busy winning."

"Well if _mommy's_ worried," Bentley sniggered, and the group erupted with laughter.

By the time the tide of District Six children had carried them to the square, the laughter had mostly died out. Tucker's palms were sweating, which he told himself was strange, because he wasn't afraid. _There's nothing to_ be _afraid of,_ he told himself, as they followed the crushing throngs of other twelve-year olds down the narrow street that led to the reapings square. _Either I get reaped or I don't. Either way I'm fine._ His gut clenched. _I'm fine._

The reapings square was hemmed in on all sides by tall grey buildings and poorly-maintained browning hedges. The sections for each gender and age had been sectioned off with plush velvet rope. Tucker followed Bentley and Nash to the twelve year old boy's section. It was more crowded than the train. Bodies crushed around him, and he grimaced and tossed a few elbows to get himself more comfortable. Immediately a volley of elbows from other uncomfortable boys came jabbing into his sides and back, and he decided to keep still and try not to touch anyone.

As they waited for the reapings to start, Tucker eyed the stage. The mayor was flanked by District Six's most recent Victors, Reuben Eyre and Beatrice Hunt. Beatrice was, as usual, sitting hunched in her chair with discomfort twisting her features, glancing periodically at Reuben as if to model her actions on his. Where Tucker was standing it wasn't as easy to see the scar tissue and distorted flesh that crawled across Reuben's face and neck, but Tucker didn't have to see it to know it was there. Every year they replayed the burning of Reuben Eyre. It made for good television, by Capitol standards.

"Psst, you guys, it's starting," said Tucker, when he spotted District Six's escort trotting onto the stage. The crowd went from a dull roar to a murmur to a trickle of sound, and then to nothing. Talking over Fervor Aquamilion was not a good idea. Man could get _loud._

Fervor snatched at the microphone that stood between the two bulging glass bowls filled to the brim with slips. "District Six!" he said. "It's good to see y'all again!" There was a faint cheer that came from somewhere in the eighteen female section. Fervor, with his flat stomach and thick rockstar hair, had something of a following.

"After last year," said Fervor, staring down at the crowd from his place on the stage, "I'm gonna need to pull two _excellent_ tributes for y'all to have any chance at all. Are you _ready?"_ There was another perfunctory cheer. Tucker clenched his fists. _Not that it matters,_ he thought. _I won't get picked anyway, so who cares?_

Fervor approached the ball on the right, which was traditionally male. "District Six!" he said, plunging a hand into the reaping ball. "Your tribute…" He pulled out a fistful of little white slips and let them slip through the gaps in his fingers until one remained, fluttering in the wind like the wing of a moth. "Is…" He brought the slip to his face, and he read the name.

" _Tucker Marque!"_

 _That's me,_ thought Tucker. _That's me._

His legs collapsed from under him. It ended up taking him eight full minutes to reach the stage, on account of that.

* * *

 **Techeela Selyck, 17  
** **District Three Male**

He could hear the crowd before he could see it. As Techeela paused on the corner of Main and 7th, he slapped his hands on his knees and sucked in a few huge gasps of air. All the while he could hear the rumble of the crowd, like the dull roar of an impending earthquake, coming from somewhere a few blocks away. "The main square," he muttered, casting a quick glance behind him. The street was still empty. But they were coming.

His legs and chest burned, and his dark skin was slick with sweat, but he took off again. His feet were numb. Every footfall thudded somewhere in his stomach. The snapped end of the chain that dangled from the manacle on his wrist brushed against his hand with every step. It was a physical reminder.

As he ran the rumble of the crowd increased to an almost tangible roar. The vibrations of a hundred thousand voices shivered up from the asphalt and through the soles of his bare feet. _Big crowd,_ he thought. _What would everyone in District Three be in the main square for?_

Well, of course. Actually, he was surprised they hadn't forced him to come to this. Did they think the odds of his being reaped were so negligible that he wasn't worth the security risk? Or was there no chance of his being reaped at all?

It was strange, if he wasn't in the pool. Techeela would be a _very_ popular tribute. He knew how they thought in the Capitol well enough to know that.

He flew down the street, heart pounding in his slender chest. The urge to toss a glance over his shoulder was drowned by the voice in his head that said if the Peacekeepers _were_ behind him he didn't want to know, because they would either catch him or kill him and he couldn't face those options. _Better just kill me,_ he thought, whipping around a corner fast enough to scrape away some of the skin on the soles of his feet. _Better that than a cell._

The thought of his cell, silent, damp, waiting, was enough to spur his tired limbs. He felt like a wounded animal, trailing through the woods with blood on its flank, stumbling and crawling away from a bigger, hungrier thing. _Can't catch me,_ he thought. _I won't go back there. Not for something I didn't do. I won't, I can't, I won't._

He turned another corner. There was the square.

Ringed by Peacekeepers, and packed wall to wall with trembling children, the square was an imposing sight. The stage must have been two hundred meters from where Techeela stood, but it felt as though miles of shivering bodies stood between them. The square had gone silent, now, and the only speaking voice was amplified a hundred times from the stage. His head hummed with adrenaline. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears. Nothing else but the roar in his skull.

And a shout. "He's here! The square!"

"Fuck," said Techeela. He pushed past the Peacekeepers guarding the square, and dove into the throng.

As he'd expected, the crowd parted like water as he shouldered through. He was an unknown element, a scarred boy in a jumpsuit so orange it burned to look at, with one wrist manacled. And he was running from _something._ On every side people fell away from him, bumping into one another in an effort to avoid brushing up against the fabric of his jumpsuit. No one would meet his eyes.

 _Is it because you've heard of me?_ thought Techeela, _Or because I'm frightening either way?_ He wanted to say it. He also wanted to say, _I didn't do it, my mother did,_ but there wasn't enough time for either.

He pushed farther into the crowd. Onstage, a gaudy Capitol someone was attempting to drum up some excitement by gesturing at the boy she'd pulled onstage. _He's been reaped, then,_ thought Techeela, _If the crying is anything to go by._ "Volunteers?" It was the first word he'd heard her say. "I know that's not super normfor District Three, but- "

He was not so very far from the stage now. And he could hear his former guards shouting behind him, surmised that the Capitol woman had stopped speaking because she wanted to figure out what was behind the commotion. "Me!" he said.

The Capitol woman stiffened. " _What?"_ she said, glancing down at him, blue eyes gigantic. " _You?"_ She pointed a manicured finger in his direction. "Are you _volunteering?"_

He skidded to a stop. He could feel blood welling under his injured feet. Suddenly he felt very, very tired.

"Yes," he said. "Yes." And then, quieter, "I won't go back."

The Capitol woman clapped her hands together. "Oh my gosh," she said, so quickly that it sounded like one word. "District Three, I'm _shocked_ and so proud, get uphere, volunteer!" Techeela blinked, headed for the stage. His head felt stuffed with cloth. His eyes burned. _The Hunger Games,_ he thought, _Capitol, there might've been a better way._ But when he glanced over his shoulder and saw the prison guards glaring and snarling in the crowd, there was a brief moment of vindication. _They would've beaten me,_ he thought, _Thrown me into solitary, hurt me more than I've ever been hurt, if they'd caught me. They're so angry. I humiliated them in front of the whole prison, and they're stupid and brutal, and they would have done it. This is better. Anything is better than that place._

He mounted the steps in a daze and stood next to the Capitol woman and stared out at a sea of faces that must have been heavily populated by people who thought he'd helped his mother to do what she did. The Capitol woman was talking, asking him questions, and he took the microphone from her and said, "My name is Techeela Selyck, and some of you hate me for crimes I didn't commit. My mother did what she did to her patients on her own. I wasn't involved. I'm sorry it happened."

He handed the microphone back to the Capitol woman, who blinked up at him. "Very exciting, she said. "An innocent prisoner! I love this! We'll just reap a female tribute real quick and then we can get back to talking with Techeela Selyck, District Three's first volunteer! I'm so happy!" She giggled into the microphone, and her tinkling laugh echoed in the silence. "Okay," she said, trotting to one of the reaping bowls and snatching out a single slip. "Let's give it up for our female tribute… Deltaaaaa Gigabyte!"

There was a slight commotion in one of the sections, and then a slender girl stepped away from the crowd and walked to the stage. The cold blank glare on her face and the stiff way she carried herself were familiar to Techeela. _I've seen her,_ he thought. _She's been in prison several times before. Never for very long. But she knows what it's like. She understands._ Her brown eyes were heavy-lidded and free of tears. As she mounted the steps, she looked Techeela in the face and her expression did not change. _A mask,_ he thought. _She's pretending that she doesn't feel. I'll talk to her later. I'll figure her out._ It was a chance to talk to someone new. He thrilled at it.

He thrilled at everything. As he stood on the stage next to Delta, he felt the panic settling down to something manageable. He stared at the guards and smiled, and thought, _I'm not going back, not to my cell, I'm either going to end up in the ground or the Victor's Village._ He clutched at the broken chain dangling from his wrist. _I'm safe,_ he thought, knowing that, as he thought it, the Capitol watched him on screen and bayed for his blood. _I'm safe._

* * *

 **Starla Rippleen, 16  
** **District Four Female**

As Seiko Manda strolled across the stage to the male reaping bowl, Starla glared and pouted and crossed her arms over her chest. _Jackson Brooks,_ she thought. _It's Jackson Brooks. Everyone in the goddamn district knows it's Jackson goddamn Brooks._

Nevertheless, the crowd jittered with excited energy. The screens onstage displayed Seiko's lizard face as he paused in front of the male bowl and wriggled his fingers. _Ooh,_ Starla thought, _Oh boy, the anticipation is just_ killing _me, what could possibly happen next I just don't_ know. She picked at a loose thread on her black sweater, which was hanging from her slender frame. Again she glanced at the clock on the Justice Building, which displayed the time as 11:50. _Hurry up,_ she thought. Her palms were sweating. _I told Mom I'd be there by 12:30. Why the hell is this taking so long?_

Onstage, Seiko had reached into the bowl and was drawing out a slip. "Well, District Four," he said, unfurling the folded piece of paper. "While it seems unlikely that this slip has the name of your male tribute on it, I give you… Marius Hernandez!" The girls around Starla began to clap, smiling when it seemed likely that the cameras might end up on them. Bronzed blonde goddesses. Starla shook her head of jet-black curls so that the streaks she'd dyed her hair were more visible. _I'm so Capitol now,_ she thought, twisting one purple strand around her finger. _Ooh, look at me, I love fashion and watching kids die. Ha ha ha, I'm the best._

Marius Hernandez had mounted the steps and was waving at the audience solemnly, while Seiko's hooded eyes scanned the crowd. "Alright, Four," he said. "It's time for who you've _really_ been waiting for. Will the chosen volunteer please step forward?"

A beat. Then, from the male seventeens section, a crimson-haired boy pushed himself out of the crowd, already raising a hand to wave. He passed Marius on the stairs and took his place next to Seiko, still waving, smiling a bit. "Heyoo, District Four!" he said, leaning in to the microphone Seiko was holding. "Some of you might know me, but in case you don't I'm Jax Brooks and this year I'm headed in! Hopefully I'll do you all proud and everything." A faint blush rose to his cheekbones.

The corners of Seiko's thin lips turned up. "Welcome, Jax," he said. "The Capitol and your district are both very proud of you."

"Oh man," said Jax, waving his hand as if to disperse any praise. "It's really nothing big. Just your average trained killer!" Then he twitched, and shook his head, very slightly. "Er, yeah. Excited for those Games!"

The girls around Starla began to clap and whistle, grinning like animals baring their teeth. Starla's eyes rolled so far into the back of her skull that they ached. She checked the clock. 11:59. _Ugh,_ she thought, drumming her fingers against her forearms, _Hurry_ up, _if I don't get to the hospital by 12:30 Mom will be worried._ She shifted her weight from foot to foot, and ground her back teeth together so that she could hear the enamel squealing. Her head had begun to ache. _Hurry up,_ she thought again, _Let Lilac volunteer so I can get the hell out of here._

Then she rolled her eyes, even as the pit of her stomach twisted with nausea. _Perfect Lilac,_ she thought, _Hunger Games volunteer and everybody loves her. Maybe she'll die._ It was so vicious a thought that she blinked, and for a moment the resentment coiling in her gut was tainted with remorse. _I shouldn't feel bad, though,_ she thought. _If I were the one volunteering she'd hope that I died. She_ hates _me. So much for the bond between cousins._ Her head was really aching now, and the sweat on her palms was beginning to drip. _I think I'm going to throw up,_ she thought. _Capitol, get me out of here._

As Jackson Brooks smiled for the cameras, Seiko recovered the microphone and took center stage. His black hair shivered in the breeze like the rippling tide of a river. "For the second time," he said, "We reap someone who will quickly be replaced by a tribute with a greater propensity for violence." He approached the second reaping bowl and studied the slips inside before plucking one of the papers on top. He read the name, nodded, and said "Starla Rippleen, your fifteen minutes of fame have begun."

"Oh, for Capitol's sake," said Starla, aloud. "You're kidding me."

A ripple of confused laughter bubbled up from the girls around her, who were moving to the side to create a clear pathway to the stage. "Uggggh," she moaned, weaving her way through cheering teens, trudging up the steps to the stage with leaden feet. She could see the clock better from the stage. 12:05. _This is gonna make me late_ , she thought, resisting the urge to growl about timeliness on live television for all of Panem. _For Capitol's fucking sake, why is this happening to me today?_

"Welcome, Starla," said Seiko. "Do you have anything you'd like to say to your volunteer?"

She ground her back teeth so hard she thought she might taste blood. "Just come up here and get your eternal glory or whatever, Lilac," she snapped into the microphone. "We've all got places to be."

Seiko raised perfectly-manicured eyebrows and said, "Testy, aren't we?"

"'Lil bit," said Starla.

His black eyes flickered skyward. "Well," he said, "If our volunteer has this much fire, we should be in for a bloody year." He scanned the crowd. "Will District Four's chosen volunteer please come forth?" he said. "We've got a show to put on."

Silence.

 _Hurry up, Lilac,_ Starla thought, glaring at the eighteens section. _Is this because I said I had places to be? Making me late is just shitty._ She tapped her foot and drummed her fingers. She was grinding her back teeth so viciously that she could _absolutely_ taste iron in the back of her throat now. _Come_ on, she thought, squinting at the crowd with as much interest as Seiko had been. All the faces were blurred, indistinct. But she could sense the confusion.

Dread crawled up from her stomach. Sweeping dread that bled into her veins. Her headache had a pitch, now, a high ringing buzz that drowned out all other sound. _Lilac hates me,_ she thought. The words drilled into her brain. She felt as though someone had driven a buzzsaw in between her eyes. _Lilac hates me. She hates me. So why would she volunteer to save me? Why?_

"Oh, fuck you," she whispered. The words carried in the silence. "Lilac? _Fuck. You."_

And she heard it, from the eighteens. Maybe Seiko didn't notice. But she did. A short sharp laugh, almost incredulous in its giddy excitement. _She's there,_ thought Starla. _She's there right now. She's not volunteering. Oh Capitol. Oh Capitol._ The buzz roared in her mind. She saw Seiko's thin lips moving as he spoke into the microphone, saw Jax glancing over at her with raised eyebrows and a confused shrug. But all she could hear was the roar. Her chest felt constricted, her limbs heavy, she couldn't breathe.

She looked at the clock. 12:10.

 _Mom won't be able to see me,_ she thought. _She's in the hospital. She can't come see me. I can't go see her. Oh Capitol, oh Capitol, oh Capitol._

Her blood pounded in her ears. Her stomach wrung itself into bloody knots. Her palms dripped sweat. She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe.

It didn't surprise her when she bent double at the waist and vomited on live television. Actually, she would tell herself later, it was a classic Starla move. Show them what you think of them, and all that.

She could do that sort of thing now. Since she was certainly, absolutely going to die.

* * *

 **Kobe Engle, 16  
** **District Ten Male**

"Don't forget," said Rouna Lackam, who seemed tinier than ever in her oversized jacket and boots. "District Ten fought against the Capitol in _both_ rebellions. When I read this name out loud, it's in response to the _thousands_ of lives that District Ten wasted by joining the fight." She held a slip of paper aloft in front of her. "Whoever this tribute is," said Rouna, "She's doing penance for District Ten's heinous actions in this war and the last."

Small as she was, the stage was dominated by Rouna's presence. The sun hung fat and golden in the sky and Kobe found that the back of his neck was drenched with sweat, but District Ten's escort did not seem to be suffering. The mentors, Katar and Coulter, both seemed slightly uncomfortable. But Rouna was pale and perfect, a shadow or a wisp in her too-large clothing. More of an idea of a person than a person in her own right. It was only when she spoke that she surged to life, with a powerful low voice that Kobe thought meant she should have been a singer.

She glanced at the slip, and narrowed her blue eyes. "Elanor Marshall," she said. "You've been chosen to pay District Ten's price. Come up to the stage."

As the little girl came stumbling out from the twelves, Kobe frowned in the direction of the escort. _District Ten's price?_ he thought. _Little self-righteous there, aren't we? The second rebellion happened almost eighty damn years ago._ He crossed thick arms over his chest. _Oh, Capitol, this is unbelievable. Look at this kid! They think she's gonna last a second against a Career?_

Elanor Marshall, who stood trembling on the stage, was not going to last a second against anyone. Where Rouna was small, Elanor was tiny, with limbs so slender she reminded Kobe of one of the starving goats he'd seen during last year's food shortage. All bone, skin stretched so tight over hollow spaces it could rip at the slightest brush of fingertips. Tears had begun to course down Elanor's pale cheeks. Her dress fluttered and snapped in the wind.

"Volunteers?" Rouna asked, and silence was her answer. _Right, like we're all chomping at the bit to volunteer for a death match where one out of twenty-four wins,_ Kobe thought. _Excuse me, lady, you're thinking of District Two! We're a bit more civilized up here._ He rubbed a hand through his unruly brown hair, and his fingertips came away stinking of sweat. _Hot,_ he thought, flapping the collar of his flannel. The sky was so blue that looking at it made his eyes sting. It was an incredible day. Too bad that he was here, in this square, surrounded by terrified teenagers and Capitol cameramen.

"No volunteers," said Rouna, "Unsurprising, considering which district this is." Elanor had begun to sob quietly, little hitching sobs that forced her scrawny shoulders up almost to her ears when she inhaled. "Safe to assume you don't have anything to say," said Rouna. "Let's see if your district partner has more spirit."

The tableau would make a good sketch, Kobe decided. The escort in her too-large army gear, the crying skeletal girl in the background, and behind them both the mentors that sat like silent impassive specters of death. If he wanted to, he could make them death, give them hooded cowls or wings or scythes. _But I've never been good at that sort of thing,_ thought Kobe, watching Rouna march to the second reaping bowl. _Realist, that's me._ His calloused hands twitched. He itched to have a pencil between his fingers.

"Alright," said Rouna, retrieving a slip from the male bowl. "Your male tribute will be no less important in representing District Ten's penance for its part in the first and second rebellions. Even if he wins. His life belongs to the Capitol now." She unfurled the slip. "Kobe Engle," she said. "Approach the stage."

He heard his own name and reared back for a moment. _That's me,_ he thought. Surprise wiped his heart-shaped face clear of any subtlety. He stared up at Rouna and thought, _I've been reaped. Capitol, I'm done. I'm finished._

Kobe sighed.

 _Oh, man. And it was such a joy to be alive._

The crowd was silent. As Kobe pushed his way to the front, he felt gentle pats on his shoulders, heard whispers of encouragement. He took them all and wanted to smile, but his face felt numb. He was sure that they understood, anyway.

He reached the stage and walked up the steps and stood next to Rouna and Elanor. "Well," said Rouna, "Here we have Kobe Engle. Are there any volunteers?"

Kobe stared out into the sea of faces. They were the familiar, broad, honest District Ten faces he knew. He did not expect anyone to volunteer and was unsurprised by the silence. "That's it, then," said Rouna. "You are our male tribute, Mister Engle."

"Dream come true," said Kobe.

Rouna blinked. "I hope you're taking this seriously," she said. "The Games were set in place to remind each district of where they belong in society. They are not to be taken lightly."

"Oh no," said Kobe, "Don't worry, I'm not making fun of your Games. Believe me, I get how serious they are. _Dead_ serious."

Rouna glared. "Very funny," she said. Her tone was stiff. "District Ten," she said, turning away from both children, "I give you your tributes." She gestured with one sweep of her arm. "Elanor Marshall and Kobe Engle. May they represent District Ten as well as they can." She looked back over her shoulder. "Tributes, shake hands," she said.

Kobe turned to Elanor. She was still weeping, trying to swipe the tears away with the backs of her hands. The hems of her sleeves were damp. When she looked up at him, her lower lip wobbled and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. _It's not right,_ he thought, extending his hand. _It's not right._ He shuddered, just for a moment. _And I'll be going in there with her. We shouldn't have to. Goddamn, it's not right._

She hesitated. Then she reached out and took his hand. He could feel spots of dampness on her skin, where the tears had soaked in.

"Very good," said Rouna. "All of you will watch their progress on television, I'm sure." She clapped her hands together. "Happy Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor."

As she said it, the Peacekeepers at the bottom of the stage began to approach, ushering Kobe and Elanor towards the Justice Building. Elanor squeaked and dropped Kobe's hand. He could see her blue eyes searching for a way out. _No way out, kiddo,_ he thought, as his forearms were seized and he was gently but firmly pulled in the direction of the Justice Building. _We're in this one for the long haul, I'm afraid._

His hands trembled again. _I need a pencil,_ he thought, _I need to sketch this. I think I'll call it: The Capitol is a Bunch of Goddamn Psychopaths and a Little Girl and I Shouldn't Have to Die For Them to Satisfy their Lunatic Bloodlust. Part One._

Where he was going, he had a feeling he was going to be able to make something of a series out of that one.

* * *

 **Elanor "Ellie" Marshall, 12  
** **District Ten Female**

They pushed her into a small room decorated with dried flowers and bleached cattle skulls. She stood in the very center, doing her best to stem the flow of tears that cascaded from her blue eyes. So far she wasn't very successful. _The odds,_ she thought, _Are 1 in 24. That's… around four percent. That isn't a good number._

So she continued to cry. She could feel her lids swelling, and the back of her throat hurt from vocalizations she was doing her best to mute. She was still crying when the door clattered open and her father bolted into the room. He had her by the shoulders in seconds, squeezing so hard she thought her bones would snap under the pressure.

"It's my fault," he said, staring at her with wild amber eyes. "This is my fault. I'm a Victor. This wasn't an accident, it was my fault." She could feel his hands trembling on her skin.

"No, Dad," she choked. The tears were slowing now. "It was an accident, I don't think they rig the reapings. That wouldn't be fair."

He winced, looked away from her, and said, "Oh, Ellie…" His face, when he looked back at her, was hard. "You've got to remember," he said, "The Capitol is your enemy. It hates you and it wants you to die."

She winced. Fresh tears dripped from her lower lashes. "Me?" she said. "Or everybody?"

"All of them. Every tribute." He paused. "Maybe not One, Two and Four. But every outer district tribute, they want to see them die. You can't give them what they want."

"Oh, Ellie!" It was her mother's voice. Ellie broke away from her father with a wordless cry, and buried herself in the warm soft embrace of her mother. "Oh, sweetheart," her mother crooned, petting through Ellie's blonde hair. "My honey. You've got to be _tough,_ Ellie. You've got to be. Can you do that?"

Ellie nodded against her mother's chest. "I… I think so," she said. _But I don't know._ The thought rose, unbidden, and lodged itself in her mind. _I don't know if I can. I just want to go home._

She shivered as her mother pulled away. "Listen to Daddy," her mother said. "He won his Games. He has lots of advice."

"Here's what you do," her father said, taking her hand. "Coulter will be your district partner's mentor. But you listen to him; he'll help you just as much as he'll help Kobe." He rubbed his thumb in circles on her skin. "I mentored him," he said, "So he has just as much of my advice as I do. When it comes down to it, you trust Coulter. I don't know that Katar can give you much help, on account of…" He gestured at his throat. "But your district partner won't begrudge Coulter working with you both. And if he does, I don't give a damn." His eyes flashed. "We're Victors," he said. "We stick together."

There was a knock on the door. "Out! We've got more visitors."

"Oh, Capitol!" Ellie's mother buried her in her arms again. "I love you, sweetheart," she murmured. "Oh my baby, I love you so much."

Her father pressed a kiss to her temple. "I love you, Ellie," he whispered. "You can do this. You can win."

The door opened. Casting wobbling glances over their shoulders, her parents stepped through the threshold and were gone. _Maybe forever,_ she thought numbly. Her tears had begun to dry. She felt as though someone had carved out the parts of her with feeling.

Into the room came Tawny, who was trembling and white-faced with fury. "Fuck!" she said, jabbing at the air with her fist. "Fuck this, fuck the Games." She darted to Ellie's side and wrapped her in a strong hug. "You've gotta win," she whispered. "I won't be able to stand it if you don't win."

They separated. "I'll do my best," said Ellie, fidgeting. Her pink dress twirled around her ankles. "I… What if I can't win, Tawny? The odds are _really bad."_

"Bull. You have your dad's friend, right? The other Victor?"

"Coulter Mignon," said Ellie. "He and Dad are pretty close. Dad thinks he'll help me out."

"Right. So you've got extra help. Plus, you're tougher than you look. Don't count yourself out, kid." Tawny reached into the pocket of her woolen skirt and pulled out a tiny wooden dog, which she thrust in front of herself. "Here," she said. "I was saving this for after we both got through our first reaping…" She paused to wipe at her eyes. "Just take it," she snapped. "It's a little dog. He can be your token."

"Oh, Tawny…" Ellie picked up the dog, which weighed almost nothing. "I love him." She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Tawny's torso. "Thank you," she whispered. "For being my best friend."

"Anytime," said Tawny, her voice muffled by Ellie's thick hair. "You've gotta win this, Ellie. For all of us."

When the guard knocked on the door to summon Tawny, she was already slipping through the threshold, swiping furiously at her eyes. Ellie walked the little dog across her palm, stroking his smooth wooden head. _He's great,_ she thought, _Just like Bingo._ A sob tore free. _Oh no, I won't be able to see him before I go… He'll miss me. He won't get what happened._ She sniffled. _It's not fair. He didn't do anything wrong._

The door opened. Ellie hiccuped and hid the little dog in her fist and stared up at the man who'd come into the room. _That's Coulter,_ she thought, _Dad's friend. The one he mentored._ "Mister Mignon," she said. She could feel the dog's tiny head digging into her palm.

"Hello, Ellie," said Coulter. He was a tall man, his features arranged in a way that did not lend themselves to handsomeness but made his face an interesting one to look at. His blue eyes glimmered under thick eyebrows. "I came as soon as I could get off the stage." His voice was soft, gentle, like the voice of an animal tamer. "I'm so sorry that this happened to you."

Ellie nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. _I will not cry,_ she told herself. _Not anymore. Not in front of this man I don't know. I will not._

"I want you to know," said Coulter, "That I will do everything in my power to help you get through the arena." He lowered his eyes. "My first priority is to take care of your district partner, Kobe," he said. "I can't abandon my duty to him. But I will spend as much time working with you as with him. I won't sleep, if I have to." He clasped his hands in front of him. "Your mentor will be Katar Veteri," he said. "She can't speak. I often help the female tributes from Ten for that reason, so there will be no raised eyebrows regarding my involvement."

He extended a hand. "I'll do my best to help you, Ellie," he said. "I hope that we can get through this together."

She looked at his hand for a moment. Then she reached out and took it. "Thanks," she whispered. _He'll help me,_ she thought. _I'll have two mentors, almost. So my odds maybe aren't so bad._ His hand was smooth and warm in hers. _I can do it, maybe,_ she thought. _I could. I could win._

And still she found herself fighting the urge to sob, to collapse, to scream. No matter what she did, the number remained in her head, taunting. _Four percent,_ she thought, as Coulter took his leave of the room. _Four percent, four percent, four percent…_


	6. Train Rides: In Which the Journey Starts

**Hi everyone, and welcome to the Train Rides! These chapters just keep getting longer and longer... Sorry fam. Hope you enjoy it regardless!**

* * *

 **Elliot Sole, 18  
** **District Eight Male**

Elliot was the first on the train. He picked at the dirt under his fingernails and strolled down the plush corridor, with its gaudy curtains and polished windows. Through the glass, a few cameras flashed. He paused to cast a quick smirk in their direction, raising one hand in a wave so casual it was almost dismissive. More white-hot flashes. He continued down the corridor, rolling his shoulders so that his spine popped. _They should hurry,_ he thought. _She must have had a lot of goodbyes to say._

He pulled open one of the sliding doors that separated the cars and stepped into a room filled with round tables, chairs, and rows of banquettes that lined the walls. Each was covered in a variety of dishes; the smells hit him so hard that his eyes watered. _It's what the merchant district smells like,_ he thought. His fingers tingled. For a moment he wanted to sidle up to the table, palm one of the crumbly cakes, and vanish off into a different car with his prize. _But I'm_ allowed _to have this,_ he thought. _No stealing necessary._

There was a thought he hadn't had in awhile. He picked up one of the little cakes and kicked a chair out from under the table, collapsing into it in a graceful sprawl. He lifted the cake to his lips and took a bite. It tasted like fruit, which surprised him; he was holding it at arm's length and examining it when his district partner stumbled into the room.

She was not particularly imposing or interesting to look at. He studied her, crossing his arms over his chest. When she realized he was looking, her blue eyes widened and she ran a finger through her hair, which was the color of a dead leaf. _She's got a big nose,_ he thought, _But she's actually kind of pretty, now that I think about it. Good for her._

He placed the cake onto the tablecloth and got to his feet. The girl dropped her gaze to the patterns on the carpet. She clasped her hands in front of her and began to wring them, so that her knuckles went white. As he walked towards her, she began to fidget and chew on her bottom lip.

"I'm Elliot Sole," he said, extending a hand. "It's nice to meet you."

She took his hand. Her grip was limp and warm with sweat. "I'm Flax," she muttered.

 _Not very talkative,_ he thought. "I was just having a snack," he said, falling back into his chair. "Do you want to eat with me?" He waited, while Flax's cheeks began to burn. "There's Capitol food all along the wall," he said, pointing. "It's pretty good so far."

"I, ah, I'm not hungry," she said. Her eyes were bloodshot. _I bet she's been crying,_ he thought. _When her family visited, she must've cried. She didn't cry onstage. That's too bad. She seemed tougher than that._ He took another bite of cake and narrowed his eyes.

"Well, we should get to know each other," he said, waving at one of the other chairs at the table. "C'mon, sit down."

She winced. "Okay," she said, voice husky. She walked to the chair he'd offered and sat down, glancing at the food before turning back to Elliot.

"Hey," he said, "If you want some food you should grab it. They've got enough of it in here for my entire gang, so it'll go to waste if _somebody_ doesn't eat it." He rolled his eyes and shrugged one shoulder, conspiratorial.

"Oh," said Flax, "Yeah, okay." She got up and searched the table for a moment, while he thought, _I don't think she has much of a backbone. Not the right attitude for the Games._ He frowned again.

Flax picked up a flaky pastry and came back to her seat, tearing off a piece and stuffing it into her mouth. She chewed methodically, unhurried, refusing to meet his eyes. "Okay," said Elliot. "I'll go first, while you eat. I'm Elliot, like I said before. Eighteen years old. I don't think we've met, but that makes sense because it looks like you're from the merchant district, and I'm not." She swallowed; he could see her throat working around the mouthful. "I run a gang," he said. "Smugglers, thieves, pickpockets, you name it. You might've heard of us. People in Eight like to say we're a _menace."_ He smiled, looking at her but seeing right through her, seeing a ragtag group of kids with gap-teeth and crooked fingers and itchy palms. "Personally," said Elliot, "I think we're one of the classiest gangs in Panem. But it's my gang, so I might be biased."

At some point Flax had stopped eating. Her hand was still resting on the pastry, but she didn't move to pick it up. "Oh," she said. "Wow." She looked at the back of her hand. Her expression was fixed.

"Well," said Elliot, "Your turn."

The sliding doors to the dining car rumbled; Flax whipped around and Elliot glanced over as three adults stepped into the room. _Saved by the bell, Flax,_ he thought, and the timing couldn't have been better for her because he seriously doubted she would have been capable of saying anything at all.

He recognized all three of them. Hamilton Damask, Chet Rulfio, District Eight's most recent male and female Victors. Hamilton was small, slender, with ice-blonde sheet-straight hair that the tabloids often speculated was Capitol-treated. Chet was tall, taller than Elliot even, with the dazed look in his eyes that had never entirely gone away after his Games. And of course there was Jeffie Morose, who'd gotten some sort of treatment to dye his skin and body completely white this year, and was currently swaying with excitement in front of his Victors, eyes screwed up with rapturous anticipation.

"Hello," said Elliot. "I'm Elliot Sole."

"Elliot!" said Chet, tearing his eyes away from one of the winking crystals on a chandelier. "I'm Chet Rulfio and it's a complete _honor_ to be your mentor." He grinned. Many of his teeth were still missing from an incident in his Games that had involved his face being ground repeatedly into a doorframe, until teeth flowed from his mouth and puddled at his feet along with the blood. "We're gonna do the best we can with this one, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Elliot, grinning back, "I'm planning on it."

"Awesome." Chet glanced at Hamilton, jabbed his finger at the door. "You mind if we head out, 'Milton? We probably have a lot to discuss an' all that."

"Go ahead," said Hamilton, whose electric-blue eyes were fixed on Flax. "So do we."

"Right," said Chet, waving Elliot to his side. Each of Chet's strides were almost double one of Elliot's; the man had insect-like long legs. "Okay," said Chet, as they passed through the sliding doors into the original car, "You feeling okay, Elliot?"

"Fine," said Elliot, stretching out his neck. "It'd be better if my friends were here, but I'll take what I can get."

"That's a good attitude." They'd stepped into a small room crammed with squashy seats and gaudy cushions. Elliot poked at a lace pillow and grimaced, throwing himself into the only undecorated chair.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "Lace is extremely difficult to make properly." Alassa always said that, Alassa with her nimble fingers who'd lost a few to the machines. "It's wasted here," he said. "Pointless."

"I suppose," said Chet. "But don't worry about that right now, yeah? You can relax for a little bit. It's a nice train."

Elliot leaned forward, clasping his hands together, frowning at the unnecessary patterns on the carpet. _I can relax,_ he thought, _But my wits stay about me. I've got to be focused. I can do this._ A flicker of a thought- a girl lying beaten and bloody on the concrete floor of the base, sightless eyes accusatory, bulging- _you did this to me, Elliot-_

 _I can do this,_ he thought again. _I can kill._ He felt a sudden chill. It had gotten cold in the little room. _After all. I've done it before._

* * *

 **Saege Olyviere, 18  
** **District Eleven Male**

"Alright now, Saege," said Wheatgrass Lowe, folding his hands in front of him on the table. "We need to talk about your angle."

Saege nodded, still mostly transfixed by the landscape that rushed by outside the window. The green of the hills blurred into a running strip at the bottom of the window, with the sky an unchanging robin's egg blue. And yet the train ran so smoothly that the china on the table in between them did not rattle. The tea in his cup didn't even ripple. He stared at the tea and rubbed his chin with one tanned hand. "It's interesting," he said. "How fast we're going and how little it affects us." Then he raised golden eyebrows and said, "I'm sorry, Wheatgrass! I'm a bit distracted."

Wheatgrass nodded. The skin on his bald crown was so tight that it shone in the light from one of the glittering chandeliers. "Perfectly understandable," he said. "But we do have to talk about your angle if you want to win this."

"Right," said Saege, "Of course." He took a sip of tea, marveled privately at the flavor. At home they'd never been able to brew tea properly. There were always leaves at the bottom of the cup, waterlogged little mounds that caught in his teeth when he tried to drink it. And a situation that they could afford to throw income away on something like tea was a rare one. _It's amazing,_ he thought, thinking of the Capitol, all the tea, all the luxury. _It's horrible._

Wheatgrass smiled. Dark bags hung from the bottom of each of his brown eyes. "Good." He rubbed the back of his head. "As your mentor," he said, "It's my duty to help you sort your angle out. And I strongly suggest that you play it mysterious. Don't give them what they want. Don't give them anything, if you can help it. Let them come to their own conclusions."

"The Capitol?" said Saege.

"Everyone," said Wheatgrass. "The Capitol, the other tributes, everyone. Whatever you believe and however you feel about the Games, you're not going to be what the Capitol wants." He grimaced. The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes were thrown into stark relief. "I saw your family and friends after saying goodbye," he said. "You're a good person, Saege. That isn't interesting enough."

Saege frowned. "I've been in fights," he said, "I can defend myself. I'm no pushover."

"That doesn't matter," said Wheatgrass. "Plenty of people have been in fights. The Capitol, and by extension the other tributes, they want someone who can _kill._ They want someone who _wants_ to kill. Those are the most interesting to watch, and they get the most sponsors." His lips thinned. "A lot of us won by killing our allies," he said. "The Capitol _loves_ that. It's a popular move."

"No," said Saege, very quietly.

"Right. I thought you'd say that." Wheatgrass closed his eyes. "Look," he said, "You don't need to worry about that right now. Just tell me what you think about the angle. Hold your cards close to your chest, don't agree or disagree with anything, just stay closed off and hope the blanks they fill in twist you into something they want you to be. Would you be willing to do that?"

Saege drummed his fingers against the tablecloth. "Yes," he said, "Or something like it. Could it hurt to show off my strength, just a little bit? It might help them make an image of me that isn't… entirely accurate."

Wheatgrass shrugged. "Up to you," he said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. "I didn't, but to be fair I didn't have much strength to show." He smiled, but his eyes were far away. "Take a break until dinner," he said. "Try and keep yourself together. One of these cars has movies in it. I'll be in my compartment; if you need me, just knock."

"Sure," said Saege. "Thank you, Wheatgrass. I'm glad you're my mentor; you've been very helpful."

"I try to be," said Wheatgrass. But again he wouldn't meet Saege's eyes.

When his mentor left the compartment, Saege rose to his feet and stared out the window for a while, as District Eleven surged by. _Home,_ he thought. _Every second we're getting farther away from home. Mom, Acaycia, Aster. Colly…_ His eyes were burning. He balled his hands into fists and squeezed them tight, and eventually the lump in his throat melted away and he could breathe again. His shoulders slumped and he tiled his head back, sighing noisily in the back of his throat.

 _I'm a human mystery,_ he thought. _Mysteries don't show their emotions like that. They certainly don't cry. I can't afford to cry, not anymore._

He wandered from the window and stepped through one of the sets of sliding doors. The train car beyond was shadowy, the only point of light a screen that flashed color and blared music and laughter. _The 148th Annual Hunger Games!_ read a banner on the top of the screen in flowing script. _It's the reapings,_ thought Saege. _Somebody's watching the reapings._

Not hard to guess who. "Hi, Clover," he said, just as his district partner straightened up on the couch to peer at him. "Do you mind if I sit with you for a little while?"

"Sure," she said, studying him. "Take a seat." She had been hunched over a little notebook, which was filled with cramped and desperate handwriting. Now startled from it, she blinked for a few moments, as he sat down beside her on the plush couch. In the glow from the screen, her usual light brown skin seemed pallid. The scabs and scarring on her face were as grotesque as they'd been when Clover had been reaped. He wanted to ask, but bit down on his tongue. _Never a reason to ask someone what happened to their face,_ he told himself. _Never._

"What are you doing?" he said. "If you don't mind my asking."

"Reapings," she said, waving a hand at the screen. "I'm watching them. Seeing what I can learn." She glanced at her notebook. "Not a lot," she said. "But it'll help to have all the other tributes memorized before we get to the Capitol and have to meet them." She waved a hand and the recording on screen flickered to life. _District Six,_ the banner read, _Kara Renault and Tucker Marque._ On screen, Tucker Marque was summoned to the stage but did not appear from the crowd. Eventually a few Peacekeepers hoisted him onstage. Tucker's legs had been trembling so hard that he seemed incapable of walking.

Saege glanced at Clover's notebook. Under Tucker's name, she'd written _Weak. Not a likely threat._

He stared at the words. "He seems like a good kid," he said.

Clover glanced away from the screen. Its reflection danced in her brown eyes. "Yeah," she said, mouth twisting. "It's too bad."

"What's too bad?" said Saege.

"That he's in this," said Clover. "That he's going to die."

"He might live," said Saege softly.

Clover shook her head and turned back to the screen. "I wish we all could," she said. "But we can't, so when it comes down to it, I'm not rooting for him." Her pen scratched across the paper. He spotted his own name, decided he didn't want to know, looked away.

"We can't all win," he agreed. "Doesn't change the fact that he's probably a good kid. I'd like to help him if I could."

"That's good of you," said Clover, hunching closer to her notebook. "You have good impulses, Saege."

"What about you?" he asked, blurting the words. "In the arena. What are your impulses?"

She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. On screen, Tucker Marque trembled like a leaf. "Well," she said, "I want to win. That's my only impulse."

"Right," said Saege. Then he fell silent. Clover turned fully back to the screen, and her pen skittered across paper. Eventually he stood up and left the room. She did not seem to notice.

* * *

 **Zippina "Zippy" Sparks, 15  
** **District Five Female**

She'd cried a bit, when she was reaped. Couldn't help it, staring out at the crowd that looked back at her with mostly impassivity. Her eyes were fixed to the other fifteen year old girls, while a mantra in her head chanted _I never got a chance to make them my friends, I never got my chance, now I'll die and I'll never have had friends._ So she cried then.

When her parents came in, she cried harder, until pain skittered across the surface of her eyeballs every time she blinked. If it was any consolation, her district partner had cried too. When they'd convened on the train, his hazel eyes were bloodshot and dazed. _We're in the same boat,_ Zippy thought, staring up at the ceiling. _Me and him. We're both in it now._

At least she'd stopped crying.

It felt as though a balloon had inflated inside her brain and was pressing into the inside of her skull, expanding it, a ceaseless pressure that could not be alleviated. She huffed and rolled onto her side, hugging one of the soft Capitol pillows to her chest. The bed was warm, plush, gentle in a way her coarse blankets at home had never been. _But I'd still rather be home,_ thought Zippy. _Mom could cook me something… Dad would tell me to quit being so serious and come play Districts and Capitol with him._ Her eyes burned, but even after she blinked they stayed dry. _I cried too much, I bet,_ she thought. _Now I can't cry anymore._

Maybe it was for the best.

There were three knocks on her door. "Zippina?" said District Five's escort, Nayala Kid. "Dinner's in five minutes."

"Coming!" Zippy called, rolling onto her back and closing her eyes. _I want to sleep,_ she thought, _But I need to eat. Eating's important now more than ever. Every calorie counts. If I waste even one, that could be the difference between starvation and survival in the- in the arena. In the Games._

She shot to her feet, rummaged through a pile of blankets she'd kicked to the floor for her shoes. Better to not wander with bare feet. Who knew what was lying around.

She'd memorized the layout of the train within five minutes of her arrival, and so found herself in the dining car three minutes ahead of schedule. Laid out on one of the central tables was a series of covered silver platters. The smell was intoxicating. Zippy's mouth watered. _Fish from Four,_ she thought, _Wheat from Nine, livestock from Ten, crops from Eleven, and it's all here in front of me in Five because of the trains they designed in Six. When this country works, it_ works.

She sat down and tapped her feet until the sliding door opened again. She glanced up. "Natalie!" she said, as her mentor sauntered into the room, "Look! Dinner's here."

"I see it," said Natalie Kern, flashing the famous half-smirk that had arguably won her her Games. "Good. I could eat your district partner." She threw herself into the chair opposite Zippy. Her blue eyes were barely visible over the rim of one of the covered platters. Neither of them were particularly tall. "Where's everybody else?"

"I'm here," said Nayala, stepping into the dining car and finding herself a seat. She was tall, willowy, dark-skinned and light-eyed. Very beautiful. _She's lucky,_ thought Zippy, thinking about her own snub nose and thin lips. _I wish I looked like that._ "I don't know where Manny and Liam are," Nayala was saying.

"Ten to one they're both crying," said Natalie. "Well, I'm gonna start." She tore off one of the lids and slid an entire roast chicken onto her plate. "Oh nice!" she said. "I love it when they hit me up with the appetizers before they get to the real meal."

"Actually," said Zippy, "I think that's supposed to be the main course. Most women, on average, couldn't eat that much chicken by themselves without being sick. I think it was meant to be a main course dish that you share with everybody." She thought about it. "Also," she said, "You probably shouldn't start without the others. They might think it's rude and it's definitely against proper Capitol etiquette, I'm pretty sure."

Natalie, who had shoved half of the chicken inside her apparently cavernous mouth, pulled a long white bone from between her teeth. "Huh," she said, screwing up her eyes. "You know, I can't tell whether you think I'm a complete moron who didn't already know that stuff, or whether you genuinely just wanted to let me know because you were being _helpful."_ She chewed on the end of the bone. Zippy heard a crack. "For the record," said Natalie, sucking out the marrow, "I _am_ a complete moron. So throw around your little factoids if you want, Zip. Can't promise they'll stick though."

Zippy's hands clutched at the napkin she'd been settling in her lap. "Oh," she said. Her throat felt tight. "I…" She squeezed the napkin. "I don't think…" she tried again, but her voice was small. _It's like at home,_ she thought, staring down at the tablecloth, digging her fingers into the cloth in her hands to distract herself. _I said something stupid again and now she doesn't like me. Why the hell did I say that?_

Natalie, who'd been licking chicken blood off her face, wiped the rest away with the back of her hand and said "Whoa whoa whoa, hey, don't be upset, okay? I know you don't think I'm a moron. Nobody could possibly think that, because I'm Natalie freakin' Kern and people don't associate me with idiocy." There was food all over her face. "Cool it, Zipster, alright?"

Zippy's cheeks burned. "Sorry," she muttered, "It won't happen again."

"Oh geez," said Natalie, "No, don't withdraw this early in the game, we still haven't gotten to the point where we bicker a lot but actually have a really close bond yet! Don't deprive me of that, Zipadoodle." Her head whipped to the side. "Yo, look, it's our district partners! That's fun, right?"

Zippy glanced where Natalie was looking. Sure enough, Manny Axelworth and Liam Zealot had entered the car. Both were diminutive, looking at their feet, and shuffling. Where Liam was scarred and twisted from a Games so brutal Zippy had been told to never watch it, Manny was young, scrawny and mop-headed, huge brown eyes peering out from behind thick glasses. When he saw Zippy looking, his eyes widened to an impossible diameter and a blush tinged his dark cheeks scarlet. He slipped into the seat next to her and fidgeted, picking up his fork and dropping it, folding and unfolding his napkin.

Natalie was saying something quietly to Liam, so Zippy took the opportunity and leaned in towards Manny. "Hey," she said. "Just so you know, you're not supposed to do that sort of thing at the table. You should just sit still with your napkin in your lap until dinner starts. Otherwise people might think you're rude."

"Oh!" said Manny, sitting up ramrod straight, immediately dropping the crumpled napkin into his lap. His blush deepened. "Oh-okay. Sorry. I duh-duh-don't wanna seem ruh-rude."

"It's okay!" said Zippy. The nausea in her stomach was beginning to abate. "I bet you didn't know. I know a lot, so I can tell you if you're doing something that goes against Capitol etiquette."

"Thuh-thanks," said Manny. He cast a quick, trembling smile in her direction. His eyes were huge and sweet behind the glasses. "That's really nuh-nuh-nice."

"No problem," said Zippy, smiling back. _He's not mad,_ she thought, _That's a first. Even Natalie was a little bit mad. I guess he really needs my help for this._ Warmth bloomed along her spine. _I bet that's how it works when you have friends,_ she thought, watching Manny carefully ladling potatoes onto his plate. _Not that I'd know. But I bet that's what it feels like._

She didn't cry once through dinner. It was the longest she'd gone since she'd been reaped. A new record.

* * *

 **Theresa DeWitt, 18  
** **District Twelve Female**

When three o' clock came and went, she got up and out of bed and strolled down the corridor. Her bare feet sank into the plush carpeting. Faint strips of light on the ceiling glowed a phosphorescent blue that kept her from losing her way. Still, the gathering dark around her made her grind her teeth, kept her heart beating hollowly in her breast.

She ducked into the room she remembered from earlier, the room Jetta had suggested. Her mentor, who had been bleeding heavily from the nose at the time, had pointed Theresa towards the train's only library, which had books on Hunger Games strategy that Jetta claimed would be interesting. _I guess it makes sense that she can't train me herself,_ Theresa thought, thinking of the blood that trailed from the cotton handkerchief plugged into both of Jetta's nostrils, blood that arced and shimmered down Jetta's wrist like a line of paint. _She has that hereditary disease,_ Theresa thought. _She's always bleeding._

At least Jetta's motivations were clear. She wanted Theresa to live, wanted to trade places, Jetta back to Twelve and Theresa to the show, the _Victor's Village. We want the same thing,_ thought Theresa, _We both want me to live._

So Jetta was easy to trust.

As she slid the door to the library shut behind her, there was movement in the shadowy room beyond. Someone tall and slender was standing between the bookcase and the window, holding a book up to the glass so that moonlight bathed the pages. He glanced up at her approach, and snapped the book shut. The sound was loud enough that she almost jumped.

Her district partner, Dante Blackthorn. Harder to trust.

"Hi, Dante," she said, smiling. His sclera were reflective in the dark. "I guess we both had the same idea." She glanced at the ceiling. "Do you want me to turn the light on?" she said. "You would probably see better."

"Sure," said Dante, pulling his book towards his chest. "Thanks."

"Of course," said Theresa, reaching for the light switch. "It's no problem." She flipped the switch and the light was sudden and scalding; she blinked away tears and looked at her bare feet until the pain dulled.

When she looked back up, Dante was staring at her. He was tall, with well-defined features, a handsome face surrounded by shaggy black hair the color of a crow's feather. His brown eyes were flat. _He could kill me right now,_ thought Theresa. _Here in this train car. They'd punish him for it, but what can they do? Kill him? They're already going to kill him. If anything, they'd reward him for starting the Games on his own terms._

Then she shook her head, very slightly. _No,_ she thought, _That isn't likely. He wouldn't do that. You're paranoid, Theresa. It's because of your situation._

She doubted very much that she was the only tribute feeling a little paranoid tonight.

"I don't want to disturb you," she said. "I can find something else to do. Besides, I'm not the most literary girl in the world!" She laughed quietly to herself. "It's probably better that you read."

"You can read too," said Dante. His lips moved, but his expression did not change. "There's plenty of room." His lupine eyes were fixed on hers.

A chill crawled through her spine. _Stay on your toes,_ she thought, as she strolled to the bookcase and made a show of reading through the titles. _You don't know him. You don't know what he'll do. Especially since…_

Well. She wasn't sure he even remembered her, if she'd made as much of an impact on him as he had on her. She could only hope that he did not remember.

She rubbed her chin. "I can't decide," she said. "Most of these books are things I don't know anything about." She peered at Dante out of the corner of her eye. "What did you choose, if you don't mind my asking?" she said. "Maybe you could inspire me here."

He glanced at the spine of the book in his hand. "It's called _Breaking it Down: The Hunger Games,"_ he said. "It's about Hunger Games stats. How many people from Twelve died in the Bloodbath, how many Victors betray their allies statistically. That kind of stuff."

"Ah," said Theresa. "It any good?"

He shrugged.

"Well," she said, turning back to the bookcase. She was sweating heavily under her pajamas. _Remember,_ she told herself, _Pay attention to him, don't let him get too close. You don't know what he's going to do._ "Maybe I'll pick out something like that. Wouldn't know what else to go for anyway."

"I think I'll turn in," said Dante. "I'm sure you'll find something. Good night, Theresa." He nodded at her once, turning to walk away towards the sliding doors. His loose shirt hung from his back. She recoiled at the scars there, ugly twisted things that latticed his olive skin.

"Dante," she said, hating herself even as she said it, thinking, _Theresa don't say anything, he's not your responsibility you don't_ know _him,_ but feeling the urge to help and heal as overwhelming. "I don't want to impose."

He looked at her over his shoulder. There was something meaningful in the way he refused to look away. "Your back," she said quietly. "Did that happen… is that from that night? The night that I met you?" _Now he remembers._ Her heart was wild. _You shouldn't've said that, Theresa._

Dante leaned against the closed door, folding his arms across his chest. _Hiding his back from me,_ she thought. _Oh Capitol, I shouldn't've said anything._ "I didn't think you remembered that," said Dante coolly. "It was a long time ago."

"I didn't remember much," said Theresa, "Not until they called you onstage. Just bits and pieces…" She trailed off and looked to the side, seeing another night like a film over her eyes. "We must've been, oh, eleven years old," she said.

"I was ten," said Dante.

There was a fluttering in her stomach, for a moment. _That's more than he usually says,_ she thought. _He didn't have to offer that up to me. But he did. Maybe I'm helping after all._ "They were throwing your family out of the merchant district," she said. "Your father… I don't remember that part very well."

"Executed," said Dante calmly. His gaze did not waver. His face was impassive. "He was ripping off every other merchant family in Twelve." The corners of his lips trembled once, as if unsure whether to tip up or down. "Your family would have been one of the ones we begged for shelter, after they shot him, before they dragged us out."

"Right," said Theresa. "Which we didn't give you." She remembered it very clearly now. She was young, curious, peering through a crack between her mother and the door frame at the haggard family in the street. The raised voices had disturbed her. And she remembered the boy, the only boy in the family, open-faced and shaking. There was blood on his collar. It would have been his father's blood, after he'd been shot. "Our family- every family- they wanted you gone for what your father did," she said. "He cheated all of us. I remember how furious my dad was."

"Your family runs All Sorts, right?" said Dante.

"Yes," said Theresa. "My dad, he… He's very proud of it. We've all worked hard to be as successful as we are." She frowned. "That's why he turned your family away when they needed help. That doesn't excuse it." She took a step forward. "We were neighbors," she said. "Before we ran you out of town. We could've done better. We should have." _Don't lash out,_ she thought, _Don't come after me for this. Forgive me. I can't have an enemy like you in the Games. We shouldn't have done this to you, Dante Blackthorn._

He pulled away, pressed his back against the wall. "You were a kid," he said. "You didn't have any power."

"No," she said. "But I understand if you're angry about it, anyway." She tried for a smile which felt stiff on her face. "You can tell me about it," she said. "If you want to. You can be mad at me. At us."

He shook his head. His shaggy black mane danced around his chin. "It was a long time ago," he said again. "Don't worry about it." He grasped the door handle and pulled it open with one yank. "It was… good. Talking to you. Goodnight, Theresa." Then he stepped through the door and let it slide shut behind him.

When she heard it click shut, she collapsed against the bookcase and let out a long sigh. _He remembered,_ she thought. _And he didn't say that he forgave me, which means that he doesn't. Oh, Capitol, I shouldn't've said anything._

Then she winced. _He said it was good,_ she thought, _Talking to me. Maybe I helped him, by letting him talk. It isn't all bad._

 _No,_ shaking her head, _He hates me, in the arena he'll kill me. I can't help him. I can't help anyone but myself. I can't, I can't, I can't._

Her head ached. She pressed her palms flat against her temples and squeezed. Even then she felt the pain for a while longer.

* * *

 **Kara Renault, 18  
** **District Six Female**

When Kara stepped into the dining car, she was taken aback by the quantity of food spread out on the banquettes. Her stomach had been growling, but quieted abruptly when she entered the room. It was so much food that her belly felt distended just looking at it. She probed at her belly and frowned. Like morning sickness. Like she was pregnant all over again.

 _I'm not pregnant, though,_ she thought, and the relief that came along with that thought was immediate and heady. She sat herself in the nearest chair and picked up a stem with dozens of globular purple fruits dangling along its length, and picked one off the stem with her teeth and chewed it. _A little sour,_ she thought. _It's good._

From her left came the pneumatic hiss of the sliding doors opening. "Hey, Kara," said Tucker Marque, trotting into the dining car. She smiled wide to greet her district partner, forcing herself to keep smiling even as her gaze raked over his skinny limbs, the way his shirt fluttered around a hollow abdomen. _He's so thin,_ she thought. _He must not have been eating very much back home._

"Have some breakfast," she said, kicking a chair out from under the table for him to sit in. "But don't eat too much or you'll be sick. Your body isn't used to this kind of food."

"I know, I know," said Tucker, reaching for one of the china plates. Then he bent over the table and began to scoop a bit of everything he could reach onto the plate. Kara eyed the towering pile of foodstuffs and frowned. _Well, he'll stop eating when he can't eat anymore,_ she decided. _I can't run his whole life. I hardly know him._

But she'd sat with him through dinner and then after dinner, when he wanted to watch the reapings. She'd comforted him by pointing out that he hadn't cried, and lots of other tributes had. She'd cried, when they called her name. Not very much. But she'd cried on stage as she stared out at the endless faces and thought, _I might never see my son again._ It was impossible not to cry.

Now she sat staring at Tucker with her chin resting in her hands. His brown eyes glimmered as he shoveled forkfuls of pastry into his mouth, and when he saw her looking he grinned for a moment and said "Do you think I can eat everything on this table?"

"Hmm," said Kara. "I'm not sure you should try."

"No, watch me!" He bounced in his seat. Then he attacked his plate with renewed vigor. "When I win the Games I'll probably start a food show," he said, in between mouthfuls. Crumbs spewed from his brown lips like impassioned words. "After _Victor's Village,_ I mean. It'll be really good." He paused for a moment, swallowing a mouthful so huge she could see his throat working around it. " _If_ I win, I mean," he said. "Right now it's fifty-fifty, you or me. But Six has got it in the bag this year for sure. I guarantee it."

She smiled. "I agree completely," she said. "We're a couple of winners."

"You bet we are." He took another gigantic mouthful. He was beginning to slow down. "Maybe they'll let us both win," he said. "Like in that other Games, before the Second Rebellion."

 _They won't,_ thought Kara. _Never again._ But she could see it for a moment, her white hand in Tucker's dark one, raised to the sky. _Victors._ It was such a visceral image that when it cleared she had ducked her head so that her bangs hid her eyes while she dried them. "Maybe," she said huskily. "Our mentors would be very happy."

"Ooh, yeah," said Tucker, abandoning his plate completely and swiveling in his chair to face Kara. He drummed his fingers against his skinny thighs. "Plus our families would be all, _Oh shit, two Victors!"_ He stopped fidgeting for a moment. "My family really needs the money," he said. "So we'd better pull it together and win, Kara. I don't even mind if we have to split it!"

"I don't mind either," she said, "And my family could certainly use some extra savings." She stared into a future that seemed unlikely, saw her bringing Cooper to the Capitol, getting him any medical care he needed, toys, clothes, everything. "My son's almost two," she told Tucker. "He wouldn't understand the significance. But I'd come home after my stint on that TV show and spoil him rotten!"

"Oh wow," said Tucker, "I didn't know you had a kid. What's his name?"

"Cooper," said Kara.

"That's a nice name," said Tucker. "When I have a kid I'm going to name him something really off the chain, like Jaguar. There's a kid in my class named Jaguar and I'm _super_ jealous." He picked up his fork and spun it in a circle on the table. When it slowed, the tines were pointing at Kara. "He sounds like a good kid," said Tucker. "I bet you're a great mom."

The urge to lunge across the table and wrap her arms around him was so great that Kara had to squeeze her fists to keep herself from doing it. "Thank you, Tucker," she said. "I don't know that I'm a great mom. But I certainly try to be."

There was another pneumatic hiss. Kara glanced away from Tucker and towards the woman who had just entered the room. There was something glaringly average about Beatrice Hunt, District Six's current female Victor. She was of an average height and weight, face too harsh to be pretty but too well-shaped to be ugly. She must have been in her late twenties, since she'd won the 138th Games, but the expression on her face made her seem much older than that. When she saw them she smiled, but it wasn't a lasting thing. "Hey guys," she said. "Sorry to interrupt. But Tucker, could you go find your mentor please? I think Reuben is somewhere in the next compartment."

"Yeah, sure." Tucker grabbed a crumbly muffin off his plate and bolted for the door. "See you later, Kara!"

"See you, Tucker." She smiled after him as he vanished through the door.

Beatrice sat across from Kara at the table and reached for one of the fruits on the stem. "You look like you're getting on pretty well with Tucker," she said, popping one of the fruits into her mouth with pale, long fingers.

"Yeah," said Kara. "He reminds me of my son."

"Right." Beatrice swallowed. "So you're thinking of allying with him?"

Kara nodded, brushing a few dark brown hairs out of her eye. "If he accepts," she said. "I was planning on asking before we got off the train."

Beatrice opened her mouth, closed it again. "Well," she said, at length. "That's good for Reuben, anyway. He loves when our tributes work together." She scratched the back of her curly head and stared at the fruit on her plate. "So," she said. "You, uh, are you still feeling confident about your angle?"

"Fairly confident," said Kara. "I think I can pull it off." She pursed her lips. "Young mother starstruck by the Capitol and trying to win for her son. It's not all that fake. Just the bits where I'm in love with Capitol fashion and architecture." She smiled. "Even that's not so false."

"Right. Just remember, when you get off the train they're going to prep you and then it's the Opening Party. You've gotta mingle if you can." She winced. "I wasn't so much a fan of it but I did my best. There'll be potential sponsors around, so just stick with the angle. Love the Capitol, love your son. It should be enough." Then there was a silence, while Beatrice stared at her hands. "I'll tell Reuben you're allying with Tucker," she said finally, "If that's really what you want."

"That's what I want," said Kara. "I'm certain of that."

"Then I'll tell him." Beatrice got to her feet. "I'll be in my compartment if you need me. Don't worry about the Party, Kara, it'll probably go okay. Just keep mingling." Then she walked quickly to the doors and left the room. Kara was alone with her food.

 _I'll watch Tucker at this party,_ she decided. _He talks big, so his confident underdog angle should work out for him just fine. But I need to make sure he doesn't say anything that will hurt him. I'll stick with him._ She yawned, and laid her head on the table, ear flattened against the tablecloth. _I don't know about this,_ she thought. _I don't know about any of this._ In her mind's eye she saw Cooper, little Cooper, smiling and waving and reaching out to her with one chubby fist. _But I'm doing my best. Capitol knows it. That's all I can do._

* * *

 **Eagle eyed readers might have noticed that, in Kara's POV, I mentioned something about an "Opening Party" and nothing about Chariot Rides. What could this mean? Could it be that I abolished the Chariot Rides because I think they're boring and don't have a lot of room for character development and replaced them with a cool party scene?**

 **Hmm tough to say. Guess we'll find out next chapter!**


	7. Party: In Which There's Lots of Dancing

**Uh oh, the longest chapter yet? I gotta slow down, man, this fic is gonna be the end of me.**

 **Anyway, with this chapter we've met all of our tributes and are halfway to the Games! Woot woot!**

* * *

 **Alluvion Scorand, 18  
** **District One Male**

The stylist left him in front of a mirror for a while, and he stood still and stared at his reflection in the glass. The mirror had been propped against the white wall at such an angle that the tips of his black mohawk were not visible. A suit had been tailored to cling to his frame, and he raised an arm to peel back one of the sleeves until he could see the dark ink that swirled and danced across his right arm. Under his right eye, his hydra seemed sinuous and alive, especially when he tried to smile. Its inky coils bulged, and the many heads seemed to say _Hello there, Alluvion, what're you up to killer?_

 _I look good,_ he thought. _It doesn't matter._

A little _knock-knock-knock_ on the door. "Come in," he said. The door opened and Ivelisse was behind it. Tall, slender, blonde hair in ringlets that danced around her pointed chin, wearing a white dress that plunged to her belly button, where a jewel twinkled when it caught the light. She saw his eyes roving and raised her eyebrows, waving a well-manicured hand.

"Oh no!" she said. "Don't you look at me like that, Alluvion. District partners before anything else, right?" Her full lips were cherry-red and shimmering.

"Right," he said, offering her his arm. "I'm very sorry."

"No, you're okay." She slipped her arm into his and together they strolled into the corridor. "To be fair, I'd like to think you couldn't help it!" Her heels clicked on the marble floor. She smelled very strongly of lavender.

Alluvion looked ahead, where the short white corridor they were in was cut off by a set of oak double doors. Underneath he could hear the low throb of music, the tinkle of laughter that couldn't be real. "We're going in, I suppose."

"Did they tell us not to?" said Ivelisse, pulling back slightly on his arm, heels tottering to a crawl. "We could wait for the stylists."

"No, let's go on ahead." The corners of his lips turned up. It was not a familiar feeling. "It doesn't matter what they told us."

"Oh, well, alright," said Ivelisse, as he steered her gently to the doors. "If you really think it's okay."

"I really do," said Alluvion. His smile had melted away. As he pushed open one of the doors with an open palm and they stepped into the ballroom, he thought, _If they want to punish us, they will. So be it._

The sound hit them first, a wave of human voice and the high-pitched metallic shriek of cutlery, the throaty gurgle of an emptying bottle, the throbbing music that he felt more than he heard, somewhere low in his body. It was a vast and mostly empty room, with a waxed wood floor where couples swayed to the pulsing music. _Just like they taught us back home,_ he thought. It was intoxicating, watching the gaudy Capitol people dance. Like glittering moths circling a flame.

Along the walls, tables bent in the middle under the pressure of an assortment of Capitol delicacy. Fountains of wine spouted from the pursed lips of naked stone cherubs and pooled in crystal glasses. Glistening cuts of meat were sliced by Avoxes wielding silver knives. Pastries were crushed between the straight white teeth of a hundred Capitolians. And for a moment, all eyes were on Alluvion and Ivelisse. _District One,_ he thought. _We're the stars of their show. The choicest killers. Definitely the most beautiful._

Well, but he hadn't seen his allies in person yet.

He could see the crowds pulling towards them, and he kept hold of Ivelisse's arm and tugged her towards the dance floor. "We're gonna dance?" she said, frowning slightly. "Our mentors said we were supposed to meet with the other Careers and then talk to sponsors."

"We will," said Alluvion. "It's a long party."

She puffed out her white cheeks. "You're Mister Rebel tonight, huh? Songbird and Regal are gonna be _pissed_ at you."

He shrugged. The music was in him now, throbbing along with his pulse, and they had reached the other couples. He held out his arms and Ivelisse stepped into them. When he had her in his embrace, they whirled away, her skirt wrapping itself around their calves, his arms warm against her lower back. She was smiling, green eyes twinkling, throat working as she laughed. "This is fun!" she said, a bit louder than normal to drown out the music. "You know how to have a good time after all, Alluvion. I actually figured you didn't because at the Academy you always seemed so serious!"

 _I don't want to think about the Academy,_ he thought. His grip tightened on her skin. She didn't say anything. "Looks can be deceiving," he said.

"So true." The song ended. They stopped for a moment, and Alluvion let his arms fall to his sides. Ivelisse took the opportunity to adjust the lacy sleeve of her dress, which had begun to slip from all the whirling. "I'm so happy they taught us dancing," she said. "I remember in dance I used to think _ugh this is so pointless_ and now here we are and pretty much the whole Capitol is watching us dance!" She glanced at his face. "Are you self-conscious at all?" she asked. "There's cameras. The world is probably watching."

He scanned the crowd. Sure enough, he could see the cameras, perched on long necks that allowed them to swivel and duck. "Not at all," he said, staring into a bulging lens. "They can watch if they want. It doesn't make a difference to me."

"Sure," said Ivelisse, placing a hand on her hip, "But you never seem to get flustered about stuff like that. You're so… unrufflable. If that's a word." She bit her lip. "I mean, uh, you're so _calm_ all the time. Nothing freaks you out. It's very cool."

A second song had begun to play. She stepped into his arms and away they went. "I'm jealous," said Ivelisse, as the music pounded in his ears. "I definitely always think about what other people think."

"Have you considered that it doesn't matter?" said Alluvion.

"Yeah, of course. That's the first thing they tell you to think about."

"No," he said. "I mean really. In the grand scheme of things." There was a sudden pause in the bass, and he took the opportunity to dip her almost to the floor. Her hair brushed the wood. "The world's been around for a long time," he said, straightening her back up, stepping back into the dance. "We're only on it for a tiny little while. It doesn't matter what you do, or I do, or the people behind the cameras do. It's temporary. Everyone is temporary."

As he said it and looked into Ivelisse's beautiful face, he saw another face on another day. Just as pale, but that was because the boy had been dying. That had been shocking to Alluvion. That an eighteen year old was capable of something like death. It was that moment that had showed him how short eighteen years was in the eternity of nothing that would follow.

"That's… real dark, Alluvion," said Ivelisse. "But I guess I see what you're saying. Who cares what people think, if they're all going to die anyway and I am too?"

"Basically," said Alluvion. He wondered if he would kill her, like he'd killed the boy. Elias. His grip tightened again. If he killed Ivelisse, it wouldn't be an accident. Not like last time. Elias, that was an accident. Not really even his fault, although in the grand scheme it didn't matter whose fault it was or that Elias had died or that he'd ever even existed to begin with.

If Alluvion killed Ivelisse, it would be because the Capitol and his family and his Academy had begged him to do it. She was a nice girl. She was nothing, a single atom in an infinite and expanding universe of stars and light. A nice atom, a fun and beautiful and diverting atom, but still just a speck of dust like him and everyone else. So if they all wanted him to kill her, he could do it. And it wouldn't be an accident. Not like Elias. Elias had been an accident.

The second song ended. She swirled to a stop in his arms. "Still fun," she said, "You're a good partner, Alluvion." She squeezed his hand. "We should find the other Careers," she said. "We need to meet them. We've got a lot to do."

"Alright," he said, letting her take his hand and pull him towards the crowd. He was not invested or interested in the plan. But it was no skin off his back to do it. And the Capitol and his parents and the Academy would want him to. If he was going to do anything at all, it would be for them.

That wasn't counting Elias, of course. Elias had been an accident.

* * *

 **Roman Ward, 18  
** **District Two Male**

As District One slipped away from the dance floor and plunged back into the crowd, Roman took a final sip from his glass and placed it on the long table. It stood next to a glistening roasted pig with an apple distending its lower jaw. The pig's button-black eyes bulged from the loose skin bunched up from its yawning mouth. The eyes seemed to follow him as he pushed away into the masses.

The Capitolians would reach for him, trail fingers across the muscles bunched under his tailored suit, shout into his ears that he was a good looking guy, he would go far, they would sponsor him. He smiled and blushed and waved away compliments. "Have you seen District One?" he would ask, and they would point him in the right direction. Eventually he slipped between a feathered woman and a masked man and there was District One, standing and chatting next to a glossy and jet-black piano.

The girl, she was beautiful. _Ivelisse,_ he thought, remembering her reaping, the gazelle-like loping stride that had brought her to the stage when she called out her volunteering intentions. She was tall, although not as tall as Roman was. Blonde hair brushed the tops of her sloping white shoulders. Her dress was dramatic, and he forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on her slim neck, or higher.

Then there was Alluvion Scorand. Not as tall or as well-built as Roman, but it was clear that he was a talented athlete. His skin was the color of beechwood, his eyes oval and brown, hair black and drawn up into a mohawk. Underneath his right eye, there was a tattoo of a many-headed scaly thing, coiling itself all the way to a spot below his ear. His eyelids were hooded and he stared at the crowd with an expression that made Roman think that Alluvion was half-asleep, or that the stuff that made him an individual had been beaten out of him a long time ago.

He smiled. "District One!" he said.

They turned to him as a unit. "Oh!" said Ivelisse, "You must be Roman Ward!" She thrust out her hand. "I'm Ivelisse Shale," she said. "I'm so excited to work together!"

"I am too," said Roman, shaking her hand, which was warm and brought with it the faint scent of lavender. "It's nice to meet you." He withdrew his hand and swiveled to face Alluvion. "I saw you volunteer. You're Alluvion Scorand, right?"

"Yup." Alluvion nodded. "Enjoying the party?" His vacant expression did not change.

"Sure," said Roman. "I've been having some luck with sponsors. How are you two doing?"

Ivelisse giggled. "Actually," she said, casting a furtive glance to her left and right, "We've been dancing this whole time. We haven't done any work yet at _all."_ She grinned. "Our mentors aren't going to be happy," she said. "But I guess once the meeting's over we can get on it. Where's your district partner?"

He wanted to wince, but forced himself to resist the urge. "She won't be joining us," he said. _Keep it simple._

"Really?" said Ivelisse. Her eyebrows rose into perfect semicircles. "Why?"

"She volunteered without Academy consent," said Roman. "She took the spot from this year's chosen volunteer. I've been asked not to let her into the alliance, and she doesn't seem very interested in joining anyway." He thrust his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. "Nevermind," he said. "She'll steer clear of us in the arena, I think."

"Yeah," said Alluvion. "Until she doesn't."

Roman cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "I'm glad I got to meet you both. They're always talking about how important it is to be a good team when you get into the arena, and I think we're all meshing pretty well so far. How about we look for the Fours?"

"Sure!" said Ivelisse. "I've been trying to spot them in the crowd. One of them was reaped, you know?"

"I saw." The three of them began to stroll towards the long tables on the closest wall, parting the sea of Capitolians. "Do you think she'll still want to join?"

"I think we should give her a chance either way, don't you?" said Ivelisse. "It can never hurt to have one more person to watch our backs."

 _It can definitely hurt,_ thought Roman, thinking of years of betrayals, but he smiled and nodded. "Let's see what her attitude's like," he said. _If she seems scheming,_ he thought, _She can sit this one out. There's strength in numbers, but we're only as strong as our weakest link. Career packs rarely survive once somebody goes turncoat._

A short, slender teenager shouldered his way from the chittering masses of Capitolians. His arm dangled behind him, and as he pushed his way into the pocket of space that had formed around the Careers, a second hand became visible, clutched in his. He smiled when he saw them. He was slender but well-toned, with short red hair and a few freckles scattered across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. "Hey," he said, dragging his arm forward, pulling a resisting body out from the crowd. "You're the Careers, right? I'm Jax Brooks." He squinted. "Where's the other Two?"

"Who cares," bit the girl whose hand was clutched in Jax's. "You said you'd let me go if I met the other Careers, and I did, so now I get to go sit by myself in the corner and ignore everybody." Her black curls had been dyed a host of unnatural colors. Reds and purples and pinks cascaded from her crown to her shoulders. Her green eyes were hot with rage. She was several inches taller than Jax, and had to twist her head down to glare at him.

"This is Starla," said Jax, squeezing her hand. "You guys would not _believe_ how sweaty her palms are right now. It's nuts."

" _Hey!"_ she snapped, tearing free. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the floor, tapping her foot and baring her bottom teeth in a pout that was almost animal-snarl. Roman looked from her toes to her forehead. She was as well-muscled as Jax was, with a body hardened by years in the sea. _She could work,_ he thought. _She's angry, but that doesn't mean she's untrustworthy. And she's willing to listen to Jax. And when it really came down to it, she couldn't take me in a fight but she_ could _take the tributes from other districts. She's no danger to me. If anything, she's pretty useful._

He grinned and thrust out his hand. "Roman Ward," he said, taking Jax's hand and giving it a firm shake. "It's good to have you on the team."

"Oh, thanks," said Jax. "Career for life, am I right? I mean, literally, Careers until we die."

"That's a way of looking at it," said Roman, smiling a bit in spite of himself. "What about you, Starla? Any interest in being a Career for life?"

"I dunno," said Starla, who did not look up. "Are you guys gonna torture me if I say no?"

" _No_ ," said Roman. "No, of course not!" He crossed his arms over his chest. "But we might be at odds in the arena. I'd rather be your friend, if I had the choice."

"Oh isn't _that_ nice," she breathed. Finally she looked up to meet his eyes. "Maybe," she said. "I guess. I don't know why you'd want me."

"You look strong," said Roman. "And you're from Four. You must have trained a bit at some point."

"A bit," she said. Some of the tension that had been thrust out from her shoulders and back seemed to ease. She began to slouch. "So you people seriously want me?"

"For whatever reason," said Jax. "Maybe your winning personality." She glowered at him, and he yelped playfully and danced away. It seemed as though she'd cuffed him before.

"Well, that's settled," said Roman, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from him. "Welcome to the Careers, Jax and Starla." The group had naturally shifted into a circle. He smiled. "Alright," he said, "One more order of business for tonight and then we can go back to sponsor hunting until training tomorrow. Anyone looking to make a claim for leader?"

"I am!" said Ivelisse, raising her hand and wiggling her fingers. "Anybody else?"

"I was considering it," said Roman, apologetic. "You want to leave it up to the mentors?"

She shrugged, then nodded. "I guess so," she said. "That's how it's usually done, right? And they'll decide by tomorrow?"

"They all vote, I think," said Jax. "Intense. It's like a mini Hunger Games."

"Ooh." Ivelisse narrowed blue eyes in Roman's direction. "Well then, good luck, District Two. I play to _win."_

"Yikes," said Roman, taking a step back. "I don't wanna get on your bad side this early!"

"Nobody does!" she trilled. Then she winked. "Should we get back to the party, everybody? Our mentors can handle the leader thing. Also, I think the punch over by that fountain with the naked flying baby is spiked, if anyone wants to come get a little tipsy with me."

"I'm down!" said Jax immediately, and as the two turned towards the punch bowl Alluvion fell into step beside them, silent, impassive. Starla watched them go, looked at Roman, and then nodded as a goodbye before fading into the crowd by herself.

He was alone again. _That went well,_ he thought, reaching for a pastry that he ate in one bite. _None of them are bad people. It'll be good to work with them. I can see most of us making it to the end._

And there was no need to focus too much on the end. He knew it was coming. He could feel it in his blood.

* * *

 **Ichabod Teff, 14  
** **District Nine Male**

Abraham Savage had threatened to "hang you by your fuckin' intestines, you goddamn pansy" if Ichabod failed to socialize at the dance, so he'd gone in with every intention of finding a sponsor, maybe more than one. He needed sponsorship. When he'd been reaped, he'd been so scared that when his escort asked him to say his name again for the cameras nothing came out but a high-pitched whine. If anyone was replaying his reaping at all, they were replaying it so they could hear that whine, which Abraham assured him had turned into something of a viral video on the Capitol nets. He wasn't getting sponsors that way. They wanted to see him die. Probably early.

So as he sat on a closed toilet seat in the cold restroom, he thought for the fifth time, _I should go back out there._ He even made as if to stand up from the toilet seat. Both of his buttocks were numb from the ceramic pressing into them, and his suit had begun to rumple from the slouched way he was sitting. He felt as though it were cold enough that his breath could be visible, but of course could see nothing when he breathed. _I thought they regulated their bathrooms for temperature here,_ he thought, knowing that Abraham might legitimately hurt him if he knew that he was having this thought when he could be out gathering sponsors. _I have to go back,_ Ichabod thought. _He'll be so mad when he finds out I didn't get anybody. It's not worth it to be safe in here. Not if Abraham will gut me when I get to my room._

Wincing, he got up and lifted up the toilet seat and unlocked the stall. His shoes squeaked on the tile. The bathroom was white marble and smelled like lemons. The smell was so strong that Ichabod had had a coughing fit when he first came in. His brown eyes were still watering.

He wandered up to the row of sinks and mirrors. He felt as though he looked very small in his suit, which was slightly too big for him and clashed with his red hair. He stuck his hands under the faucet which immediately began to spit warm cleansing water which also smelled like lemons. _They've got a theme here, I guess,_ he thought. When he went back outside he was going to avoid anything lemon-flavored.

In the mirror he caught the door swinging open. A lean and dark-skinned boy walked into the bathroom, heading for the urinals that lined one wall. His eyes were beady rat's eyes; his mouth seemed too wide for his face. Ichabod caught a flash of metal dangling from his wrist. _A… manacle,_ he thought. _I wonder why he has a manacle._

The boy unzipped his fly and Ichabod looked away. "You've been in here awhile," he said, as the tinkle of his urine hitting the ceramic basin began to echo. It was such a strident sound that Ichabod wanted to cover his ears. Instead he pulled his hands out from under the faucet, which had been bellowing hot air in order to dry them.

"Uh, yeah," said Ichabod, leaning against the sink so that the cold edge forced itself into his lower back.

"I was paying attention," said the boy. He was adjusting himself. Ichabod looked away again, until he heard the metal teeth of the boy's zipper realigning themselves. "You looked like you were having trouble talking to sponsors, and then you went in here and never came out." He came to the sink next to Ichabod and smiled down at him. His smile was enormous. It looked like it would split his face in two. "I'm Techeela," he said.

"I'm Ichabod," said Ichabod.

"So," said Techeela, flipping around so that he rested against the sinks like Ichabod was. "Why would you say you were having trouble? Why did you come in here?" There was no accusatory or mocking air in his voice. He only sounded curious.

"Uh," said Ichabod. "Well. I guess I came in here because the crowd was kind of… freaking me out, I guess." He frowned. "I was having trouble for sure. I couldn't find them."

"Who?"

"The perfect sponsor."

Techeela leaned a little closer. "What do you mean by that?" he said.

"I, uh… I guess I needed my sponsor to be all sorts of things. They needed to be kind-hearted, because I don't think anyone who isn't would want to throw away money on somebody like me. But they also needed to love the Games, so they would always be watching and ready to spend more money on me if I needed help." His hands felt very cold on the sink. "They needed to only sponsor me so they wouldn't have to choose between me and their other favorite if it came down to it. They needed to have a lot of money with preferably nothing else important to spend it on, like a family. And if I talked to them and they got bored at all, they wouldn't work, because my personality isn't going to change all that much in the arena." He frowned. "So I had to rule out everybody I talked to. I couldn't find a single person."

"Hmm," said Techeela. "Would you say that you're a perfectionist?"

"Oh, sure, I guess," said Ichabod.

"And do you often avoid problems that are difficult to solve by going or doing something else instead?" said Techeela.

He wanted to get angry, but instead he heaved a tired sigh and said, "Yeah, I guess I do."

"You're very self-aware," said Techeela.

"Thanks." Ichabod rubbed his hands together. "Why're you asking all these questions?"

"Oh," said Techeela, "I'm very interested in human nature. I haven't had many chances to talk to people and figure them out until recently, so I'm taking every chance I can get."

"Didn't meet a lot of people?"

"No," said Techeela. "I was in prison for a crime my mother committed."

"Ah," said Ichabod.

"Well," said Techeela, pushing away from the sinks, "Thank you for talking with me. You're a very interesting person, Ichabod. I enjoyed learning about you." He made for the bathroom door, which he pushed open. Then he paused and looked back, one hand supporting the door. "I hope we don't run into each other in the arena," he said, beady eyes glittering.

Ichabod swallowed hard. "I hope so too," he said.

"Then goodbye," said Techeela. "Hopefully forever."

"Goodbye," said Ichabod, as Techeela went through the door and closed it behind him. Then he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. _What the hell,_ he thought, _That was really strange. And it made me waste even more time. Abraham's gonna be so pissed._

That was what forced him out the door, in the end. Not finding the perfect sponsor wasn't worth the confrontation.

* * *

 **Ivelisse Shale, 17  
** **District One Female**

Eventually Jax and Alluvion went away, Jax pleasantly drunk and Alluvion as impassive as always. Jax had mentioned that he thought he could probably scale one of the columns in the ballroom to the very top, Alluvion had said that it seemed unlikely, and immediately Jax set off to prove that he definitely could. Ivelisse opted to stay by the punch table and look for sponsors.

Looking for sponsors ended up being very boring. The Capitolians loved her, loved touching her, stroking her hair, leaning in too close, staring with glittering eyes at the smooth skin between her breasts. Which was all well and good, Ivelisse supposed, but she didn't really enjoy talking to them very much. They only wanted to compliment her- again, very fun, but eventually there weren't any compliments she hadn't heard before. And then what?

So she hunted through the crowd for someone more interesting to talk to. Ivelisse was very slightly hungry, but there was her figure to think about, so she'd kept herself in control. Hadn't had very much to drink, either; punch was loaded with sugar. Besides, she was in a bit of a bad mood, so she didn't feel like drinking.

 _Who does Roman Ward think he is?_ she thought, smiling at everyone who caught her eye. _Seriously? I made my claim for leader first. What makes him think he'd be better qualified than me?_

She adjusted the skirt on her dress and thought, _He should've backed down once I said I wanted to be leader. Now it's up to the mentors, and who knows which way the Fours will go. Probably with District Two. Everyone assumes District Two is more brutal than District One._ Especially _after last year._

So annoying. Still, there was nothing she could do about it now. She clicked her way into a gap in the crowd by one of the columns. Somewhere far away she could hear shouts and laughter, and had a good idea that Jax was trying and probably failing to climb to the ceiling. _I should go over there,_ she thought. _Alluvion and Jax are fun to hang out with._

Well, Jax was, anyway. He didn't seem to have a lot of baggage, although she had guessed almost immediately that he was gay and not telling people about it when he was the only boy who made no special effort to stare or not to stare at her breasts. Still, his sexuality didn't seem to have much impact on his attitude, and Ivelisse liked his attitude.

Then there was his district partner, Starla. _She's not so fun, I bet,_ thought Ivelisse, crossing her arms over her chest. _Although I haven't spent much time with her yet. We'll see how I feel about her during training._

Her own district partner was complicated, her feelings about him confusing. _Well, he's certainly interesting, at least,_ she thought, leaning against the column so that the ridges dug into her spine. _Strange, though. Sometimes it seems like he enjoys having fun. But he never smiles. Never ever. And his whole worldview is very… dramatic, I guess._

It was bizarre. He was probably still hung up about that time he'd killed his own best friend. What a show _that_ had been; the whole Academy had been buzzing about it. _Had he done it on purpose? Why had Elias and Alluvion been fighting with real weapons at all? What kind of practice duel involves real weapons?_ The incident hadn't hurt Alluvion's chances, of course. Probably made them better, actually; the Academy loved brutality. But he hadn't been the same after.

 _Poor kid,_ she thought, _He doesn't know what it's like to_ need _to win. I almost killed that girl who nearly got this year's volunteer spot and you don't see me crying about it._ She twirled a strand of blonde hair around her manicured finger. _He might not go so far if he's stuck in the past like that. Too bad for him._

Not so bad for Ivelisse. It wasn't as if Alluvion would be better off with second or twenty-fourth place, anyway.

Movement in the crowd got her attention. She watched as a stocky young man shouldered his way through a throng of twittering Capitol girls, grinning with one side of his mouth. He raised dark eyebrows upon seeing her standing by the column, but he moved to stand by her side regardless. He was holding a crystal glass in a hand that seemed too feminine to belong to him. "Hey," he said. "Taking a break from intimidating everyone else, District One?"

He sounded mean, but she knew by the way that his brown eyes sparkled and the corners of his mouth twitched that he was only poking fun. "You think I'm intimidating?" she said. "That's nice! I'm Ivelisse Shale."

"Kobe Engle, District Ten," he said. "I figured you Career types were all about sponsorship." He sipped his drink, which was a clear amber. "Why aren't you out there?"

"Between you and me," said Ivelisse, lowering her lashes, "I think I'm pretty set in the sponsorship department." She took a few steps closer. "How about you, Kobe? What are you doing over here?"

"I'm taking a break," said Kobe, crouching to set his now-empty glass on the floor. "Hope nobody breaks that and finds a way to blame me for it," he added. "I'm a tribute now, I don't have time for Capitol lawsuits."

"Hmm," said Ivelisse. "That would be some interesting Hunger Games drama."

"Oh boy," said Kobe.

She laughed. "Let's dance," she said.

Kobe raised his eyebrows again, but followed when she took his arm and pulled him towards the dance floor. "Well," he said, "If this is some kind of plot to kill me by dancing me to death, I guess this is it for me." Then he scowled. "I really shouldn't be here," he muttered. "I didn't sign up for this. Unlike _some_ people I could mention."

She took both of his arms and wrapped them around her and began to sway. She was a few inches taller than he was, and stared down at his face through a carpet of golden ringlets. He _was_ irritated, she saw. Some of that irritation was probably directed at her. Like he'd said, she'd volunteered.

 _What will make him like me again?_ she thought. _People always like it when they have something in common._ "You know," said Ivelisse, "They didn't give me a choice either." That was a good lie. Her parents had been _horrified_ that she'd ended up as the chosen volunteer. "In District One, you train or you starve, pretty much. Bet they don't show you _that_ on Hunger Games promos."

"They don't," said Kobe. He was an awkward, stiff dancer. "Look at that. The Hunger Games suck no matter what district you're from. Who'd've thought it."

"Not the Capitolians!" said Ivelisse. "They love this show. You know I had someone tell me that when I died he hoped I had the good sense to do it beautifully? I mean, obviously I would, but that's still a gross thing to say."

Kobe laughed. "Same," he said. "I'm planning on dying beautifully or not at all."

"That's the spirit!" said Ivelisse.

The song ended. She took him by the hands and led him back into the anonymity of the crowd. "That was fun," she said. "You're a good dancer, Kobe."

"Okay, District One," he said, rolling his eyes. "Whatever you say." But he was smiling.

She let go of him. "I'm probably going to go back to sponsor hunting," she said. "But it really was fun dancing with you, Kobe. Take care of yourself out there."

"You too, District One," he said. "Remember, if you see me in the arena, you have to be nice to me now."

She giggled. "You know it," she said. Then she vanished into the crowd. _That was fun,_ she thought. _Maybe I really_ will _be nice if I see him again._

Of course she wouldn't be. But it was diverting to think about.

* * *

 **Manny Axelworth, 13  
** **District Five Male**

Manny thought, _Here's the scene. Enter Zippina "Zippy" Sparks, twenty-four year old brainiac who's had no time for anything but the lab. Enter Mannington Axelworth IV, dashing twenty-six year old Mayor of District Five who's had no time for anything but politics. When they meet, will Sparks fly? Or is this romance… Doomed to Die?_

Well. _Manny_ was probably doomed to die, but the phrase had a better ring to it as the title of a romance novel. _His_ romance novel. The fourth Clara St. Michaels thriller.

For the umpteenth time, he thought _Thank Capitol they haven't figured out I'm Clara St. Michaels yet. She's so popular in the Capitol. They'd eat me alive._

To quell his rising anxiety, he popped a flaky pastry into his mouth and chewed it until the warm butter eased away most of his worries. Then he leaned against the table and twiddled his thumbs and watched Zippy. His district partner was a few dozen feet away and was doing her best to keep a potential sponsor interested. The Capitol woman was nodding as Zippy gesticulated, but Manny could see that her eyes were glazed with boredom. Her beautiful chocolate eyes. _She's amazing,_ Manny thought. _Not as amazing as Zippy, but pretty amazing._

Zippy was, of course, on another realm of amazing. In all his life, Manny decided, he had not and would never again meet someone so intoxicatingly beautiful. _If I ever get a chance to write another Clara St. Michaels book it'll be my best yet,_ he thought, chewing on his pastry. _Because now I'm really in love. Now I really know what love feels like._

He watched her, as she screwed up her eyes (the color of seaglass) and tossed her hair (cascading to her shoulders in rivers and whorls) and waved (perfect) hands as she tried to explain something with her small, irresistible lips. She was such a small person. Not as small as Manny (although he was certain that soon he would reach five feet.) But Zippy was small enough to be delicate without being fragile. She was small where it counted.

His heart swelled. He wanted to run to her and wrap his arms around her and tell her he loved her forever. Instead he blushed so badly that his temples began to sweat, and slunk back around the column he was standing next to, so he couldn't see her. It was no use. He'd never be able to do it. Even thinking about it made his stomach twist painfully.

He jiggled his leg in the too-big suit and crossed his arms over his chest. _I should try for sponsors,_ he thought, but he didn't really need to try too hard since everyone had been cooing over him since the moment he got to the party. Besides, it was winding down; the crowd had thinned and the music had transformed into slow dance material. He kept seeing the girl from One dancing with the other Careers, and as much love as he felt for Zippy there was _definitely_ some room in there for the One girl as well. Watching her dance made him want to ask Zippy to dance. But that wouldn't work. He'd start to say it and the words would get all bunched up in his mouth (as they usually did) and he'd just sputter for a while before falling silent. He'd been laughed at too many times to try something like that again.

"Manny?" said Zippy, from beside him.

He jumped so hard he scraped his back along the column. Wincing, he pressed the palm of his hand against the sore spot and said "Huh-hi, Zuh-Zuh-Zippy." His eyes were glued to her red leather shoes. He could not look up from the shoes. Even her ankles were pushing it.

"Hey," said Zippy. Her voice was low and urgent. "Have you been following me through the whole party? That's not a good idea, Manny."

Oh no. Oh Capitol _no._ This could not be happening. He wanted to scream. He wanted to die.

"Nuh-no," he said. The lie was weak, and hollow. The backs of his eyes had begun to prickle.

"Really, Manny, that's no good," said Zippy. He could see her hands moving in his peripheral, but the idea of looking up and accidentally making eye contact was physically revolting. "You have to be doing your absolute _best_ to trawl for sponsors. Every Victor of the Games in recent memory- with a few notable exceptions, of course- were all doing very well with sponsorship, especially by the end of their Games. Sponsorship is too important for you to phone it in. You've _got_ to go out there." She dropped one of her hands to her hip. "There are some simple methods to getting sponsors," she said. "You've got to play up your angle as much as you can. You're supposed to be cute and optimistic, aren't you?"

"Yeah," said Manny. The painful feeling in his guts was starting to ease. _She's not mad,_ he thought. _She's really not mad. She's_ helping.

"So," said Zippy, "You should be acting as cute as possible. Puppy dog eyes, asking people for help or directions, the works! It's not very hard to figure these Capitol people out. You just need to give them what they want, Manny."

"Ruh-right," he said. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. _Thank you for helping me out, Zippy. Care to dance?_ The words were burning inside him. He felt like they would melt away his tongue if he didn't say them. "Thuh-thuh-thuh-thuh-thuh-" And now the word was stuck somewhere between his brain and his tongue, and it _wouldn't come out,_ and forcing it was making things worse. " _Thuh-thuh-thuh-"_

"Nevermind," said Zippy, cutting him off with a hurried wave of her arm. "You were going to say _thank you,_ weren't you? You're welcome." She smiled. It was a small, quivering smile. It hurt his heart, it was so lovely to look at. "I'm going to keep looking for sponsors until they send us to our rooms," she said. "You should do the same thing. Sponsorship is seriously important." She made as if to leave, and then flashed another smile his way. "See you later, Manny."

"Suh-see you." She hurried away. He kept his gaze fixed carefully on her red shoes.

Afterwards he collapsed against the column. They'd spoken! She tried to help him! Zippy was beautiful and perfect and wanted to keep him alive. Him! It meant she cared. It must have meant she cared.

He didn't end up talking to any sponsors, not really. The men were not interesting to him and every woman he tried to talk to gave him such a bad stutter that his cheeks flamed scarlet. But it was alright. At the very least, he was unbelievably cute. The Capitol ate it up. Zippy had been right; they really did live for this kind of stuff.

* * *

 **Dante Blackthorn, 18  
** **District Twelve Male**

 _It's my birthday,_ Dante thought.

He hadn't remembered. And all of a sudden, as the Peacekeepers in their inflexible white uniforms began to herd the remaining tributes towards the double doors to the elevators, he saw an overturned slice of cake on one of the vast silver platters. And he remembered that he was eighteen years old today.

 _Happy birthday to me,_ he thought, crossing his arms over his chest.

There weren't so many tributes left now that the party was over. And most of them he didn't recognize. Theresa must have gone upstairs, to the District Twelve suite that Dante's mentor Fox assured him was impressive, a real sight to see.

Dante's eyebrows furrowed. Truth be told, he wasn't very interested in how wonderful and expansive the suite was.

As he followed the Peacekeepers, making certain to watch their batons for any hint of violence, he considered that he would be sharing the suites with Theresa, and that alone made him uncomfortable to be there. She was a funny sort of person, closed-off and caring at once. He remembered the look in her eyes when she'd seen the deep scars on his back. Her startled, nervous tone of voice.

But more than that he remembered her peering around her parent's legs as he and his mother and sisters begged every merchant family for help. After his father had been shot. When the blood was still drying on his face and clothing.

So when he saw her, he saw and remembered that night. That _incident._ Every time he looked at her. He couldn't help but dislike her. It was almost a physical reaction. He couldn't do anything about it.

The tributes had been herded from the empty ballroom to a white corridor with a row of elevators. Small groups formed, as tributes huddled with their district partners and murmured to one another so that the other groups could not hear. Next to Dante was a small pair, a tiny scrawny twig of a boy and a girl who jittered with nervous energy and spoke with her hands as much as with her voice. Dante towered over both of them.

"So," the girl was saying, "Listen to this, Manny. I read a book about elevators called _Going Up_ so I actually know a great deal about them." She pointed at the closed doors. "Behind those doors," she said, "There's another set of doors. Those are the elevator doors. They open at the same time _these_ doors open, so we can step inside the elevator."

Dante drifted a little closer. The boy, Manny, did not seem as bored as Dante had expected he would be upon being forced to listen to a lecture about how elevators worked. He gazed at the girl with huge brown eyes. He seemed enraptured.

 _Interesting,_ thought Dante. _She's very smart. He's very interested._

The elevator dinged and the girl jumped. "Oh," she said, "I completely forgot to tell you about how the elevator signals to us that it's arrived on our floor!" The doors were opening, and she and Manny and Dante all stepped inside and waited until they closed. Once in the elevator, the girl seemed to realize that she was not alone with who Dante assumed was her district partner. She cast furtive glances in his direction. There was a spot of color on both of her tanned cheeks.

 _She's embarrassed,_ he thought. _She shouldn't be. She was just trying to tell him what she knew._

Pity moved him. "You can keep talking about elevators," he said. " I don't mind. It's interesting."

Her eyebrows flew up. "Oh!" she said. She fidgeted from foot to foot, the fluffy purple dress she was wearing bouncing around her knees. "Well, uh…" The elevator began to move under their feet. His stomach jolted as it began to rise. "Well," she said, "Right now a big motor is pulling on a cable attached to the top of this elevator car. There's a counterweight on the other side of the pulley that this cable is being fed through, which helps make sure the elevator doesn't need to use so much power to go up. Because the counterweight is pulling it down." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "And that's basically it," she said.

He nodded. "Cool," he said. That seemed to please her. Her smile was quick, but it was genuine. He felt it warm something in his chest.

"Cool," she echoed. The elevator let out another ding. "Oh!" she said. "This is our floor. We're from District Five, y'know." She eyed Dante. "And you look like somebody from… uh… Seven? Twelve? You've got the complexion of those districts."

"Twelve," he said. "I'm Dante," he added.

"I'm Zippina, but you can call me Zippy," she said, waving a hand in front of the open elevator doors to keep them from closing. "This is Manny."

"Huh-hi," said Manny. _He has a stutter,_ Dante thought. The warmth in his chest blossomed. _And now he's blushing too. He's afraid I'll make fun. Who have these kids been hanging out with, that they're so ashamed of what they are?_

He smiled. "Well," he said, "I'm glad I met you both."

"Thuh-thuh-thuh-thanks!" said Manny, squirming.

"Yeah," said Zippy. "Thanks." They stepped from the elevator car. "We'll see you tomorrow at training?" Zippy blurted, as the doors began to close. "Remember, it's at nine, don't be late or you'll look rude-" The doors cut her off before she could finish.

Dante laughed quietly to himself. Then he went to lean on the wall of the elevator. _Smart,_ he thought, _And friendly. Tomorrow during training I should spend some time with her, with them. See how smart she really is. Maybe this could work itself into something concrete in the arena._

It helped that when he looked at Zippy he saw his sisters. It helped that Manny was so small and sweet that he wanted to stand between the boy and anything that might have hurt him in the past, or in the future. It helped that he had met them moments ago and they'd already awoken in him the desire to _protect._

The elevator began to rise again. _I can't believe this is my birthday,_ thought Dante. _Strangest birthday I ever had._

* * *

 **Woo! All the tributes have finally taken the stage! To celebrate, head on over to my profile and vote in the _poll_ I just made for the four tributes you really want to survive the Bloodbath! I'll be using this vote (as well as many other factors, don't worry if your tribute isn't popular) to decide who I kill, so please vote I need this k thanx**


	8. Interlude: In Which Nobody Sleeps

**This chapter is a shameless Victor interlude because I like my Victors and wanted to show them off. Training will start next chapter, I promise.**

 **Poll's still open! Please vote in it (unless you like them all and can't decide, very understandable I'm in the same boat). Lurkers/people who didn't submit a character are more than welcome to vote as well!**

 **Also, we hit fifty reviews! Yay! I'm very happy, especially since I'm shameless and like reviews. Thanks everyone, you are all amazing :)**

* * *

 **Coulter Mignon, 36  
** **District Ten Male, Victor of the 127th Hunger Games**

He spoke with Kobe first. When Kobe stumbled inside from the Opening Party, bleary-eyed and exhausted, Coulter led the boy to his room and sat him on his bed. He took the plush chair in the corner and sat on the very edge so that his spine was as straight and taut as a bowstring. "Tell me how you felt it went," he said.

Kobe yawned. His chocolate eyes watered from the force of the yawn. "Well," he said, closing his jaws with a click. "You said to seem bored, right? Disaffected? But still confident? I think I managed that." He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "It wasn't that hard, since that's basically exactly how I feel. Minus the confident bit." He rubbed his chin. "Honestly," he said, "It's hard to feel confident when you're dancing with a Career and she squeezes your arms in, like, a friendly way, and you want to die because she's really strong but if you say anything you'll look like a wimp." He groaned and collapsed on top of his sheets. "It's unbelievable," he said. "I bet I have bruises."

"You danced with a Career?" said Coulter. "Which one?"

"Ivelisse Shale," said Kobe. "District One. She asked me to dance, would've been rude not to." He stared at the ceiling. "For someone who's probably going to try and kill me in a few days, we really hit it off," he said. "We're pretty much best friends now."

"Well," said Coulter, crossing his legs at the knee. "I would recommend trying to remember that this girl, in all likelihood, wants you to die. District Ones are notorious manipulators."

"Mm," said Kobe. "No, you're right. I'll keep that in mind." He had begun to sink into the plush magenta bedding. "Oh well," he said. "Pretty much every other tribute is probably hoping I'll die at some point. The Careers are just more gung-ho about bringing that dream to life."

"That's certainly a way for you to think about them," said Coulter. "If you don't mind my mentioning them, my own Games had a formidable Career pack, and I did survive. There's no reason why you shouldn't as well. Sponsorship is an important factor in that." He settled his hands on his knee and thought, _How will I spin this dance with Ivelisse Shale? It must have interested the Capitolians. Kobe Engle Dances with Death._ It was not ideal. Turning Ivelisse into the personification of death would increase her sponsor count as well. Could leech potential sponsors from Kobe and Ellie. _But the Careers will always have sponsors,_ Coulter thought. _District Ten… not as often. There's no reason for me to waste this opportunity._

He got to his feet. "You should rest, if you at all can," he said. "Tomorrow is training, nine o' clock sharp. I recommend getting there on time and working on the strengths you already have. Practice unarmed combat. The odds are very good you won't be armed, the majority of the time."

"Right," said Kobe. "I'll punch my way through." He lifted a fist into the air above his head. "Box my way to Victory."

"Well," said Coulter. "You'd be surprised, I think. It worked with me, for the most part."

He left Kobe and made for Ellie's room, which was across the darkened suite. He knocked three times on her door, and on the fourth knock she opened the door and let him inside. She went to sit on her bed, and Coulter sat himself in a chair identical to the one in Kobe's room. Every tribute room was exactly the same; some other mentor had told him that. He couldn't remember who, now.

"How are you doing, Ellie?" he asked, leaning forward so that his elbows dug into his knees. "How do you think the Opening Party went in terms of sponsorship?"

Ellie picked at one of the cloth flowers on her dress. The gloss on her nails shimmered in the dim red light coming from her desk lamp. "I don't know," she said, looking at her hands. "I talked to five potential sponsors. I think I talked around twenty minutes to all of them." She sighed. "None of them committed or anything," she said. "But that doesn't mean they're not interested, right?"

"You played up your angle?" asked Coulter. "Aloof, confident?"

"Yeah," said Ellie, "I don't know how they felt about it." She kicked one of her feet against the bedspread. "I didn't like talking to them," she muttered. "I hope they couldn't tell. And they kept asking me stuff about how many people I was going to kill and whether or not I was excited about that." Her lower lip wobbled. "It's not fair," she said. "I'm only twelve. I shouldn't be here."

"You have no idea how much I agree that you shouldn't be here, Ellie," said Coulter. "I wish very much that you were not here. But, since you are, we have to do our best." He glanced at the door. "Have you seen Katar anywhere?" he said.

"No," said Ellie. "I barely saw her during the train ride over here."

He sighed. "That's not a surprise," he said. "Katar can be… difficult to hold in place, as it were. I'm not convinced she's even in the building." He got to his feet. "I need to hunt down potential sponsors," he said. "I must remind you that Kobe is likely doing better than you are in that area. Have you reconsidered your stance on allying?"

She shook her head twice. Her blonde hair danced from side to side in a sheet. "No," she said. "I'm not going to. I… I don't want to. Still."

He nodded. "Alright, then. I'll keep mentoring you separately." He made for the door. "Training is at nine o' clock tomorrow," he said. "I suggest that you get there right on time. Try and hone your survival and plant identification skills. I think you'll make great progress in those fields." He opened the door. "Rest well," he said. "Until tomorrow."

Then he went out into the hall and clenched his fist so hard that one of his blunt nails tore through the skin. But there was no time to worry about it. He had sponsors to impress.

* * *

 **Allen Morphol, 39  
** **District Three Male, Victor of the 127th Hunger Games**

Allen Morphol watched the clock.

 _Tick, tock._ It did not actually _tick_ or _tock;_ it was a digital clock, with red numbers that rose steadily until they reached their apex before starting over. _11:45. 11:59. 12:00. 12:01._ His eyes watered from staring at the numbers as they rose. One of his fingers tapped against his knee, but when he became conscious of the tapping he strove to prevent it in the future, and kept his finger very still. _12:07._

At 12:11 AM, Techeela Selyck turned over in his sleep, clutched once at the pillow as if in the throes of some dream, and then opened his eyes. His body under the blankets was long and slender, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the dark. Allen leaned forward in the plush chair by Techeela's bed. He wanted to reach for Techeela's foot and perhaps grasp it over the sheets, but midway in the act of reaching, a foreign part of his brain seemed to say _This is not what people tend to do._ So he settled back into the chair and put his hand back at his side.

His clothing rustled, and Techeela's black pupils slid to where Allen was sitting in the chair. Techeela's nostrils flared and his body tensed. Allen could see his muscles flexing under the sheets, like the hood of a poisonous snake beginning to rise. Then Techeela sat up and rubbed some of the crust out of the corners of his eyes with the back of his hands. His open mouth reminded Allen of a wound.

"Why are you watching me sleep?" said Techeela. "Did you want to talk to me again?"

"Yes," said Allen. "I was waiting for you to wake up."

"Why wouldn't you just wake me up?" said Techeela, shoving some of the sheets down to his waist, where they draped over his crossed legs. "You could have."

Allen raised both of his shoulders and let them fall. Fluidly. The rest of his body did not stir. "I was watching you," he said.

"I gathered," said Techeela, with a wry note in his voice. "What were you watching me for?"

Allen got up from the chair and walked to the edge of Techeela's bed and sat down. He sank into the plush sheets and soft mattress. The bed dipped under his weight. "I wanted to see if there was something in you," he said. "Or if you were capable of coming out of this alive."

Techeela shifted his weight onto his palms. "Am I?" he said. "And how would you be able to tell if I was?"

The clock ticked upwards. _12:14._ "You know," said Allen, looking at the red numbers on the display, "I knew your mother very well."

"Oh," said Techeela. His eyebrows drew together so that the skin in between them was distorted and wrinkled.

"Before I was reaped for the 127th Hunger Games," said Allen, "My parents believed that it was in my best interests to consult with a clinical psychologist. They were under the impression that I was suffering from a profound lack of empathy." He intertwined his long fingers and settled them in his lap. The red glow from the digital clock was beginning to scald his eyes. "Your mother encouraged me to remove from myself all unnecessary emotion," he said. "It became an integral part of my treatment." His eyelids flickered. "A great many situations encourage you to feel," he said. "I found that after the therapy your mother put me through, most scenarios evoked very little feeling from me. Empathy or otherwise." He leaned forward. "There is nothing inside of me," he said.

Techeela did not draw back. Allen could feel his breath on his face. It was warm and rapid. "I don't believe it," he said. "My mother couldn't have erased everything inside of you."

Allen raised one eyebrow. "Your mother might not have had much to do with it. I believe that, before my sessions with Maryann, there was very little inside of me. After my sessions with her, there was nothing at all. She hardly tipped the scales." He closed his eyelids. He could feel his own long eyelashes brushing the soft skin under his eyes. "It has been very useful," he said. "The 127th Games showed me the practicality inherent in my situation."

Techeela swallowed. "You're referring to what you did in your Games," he said. "The people you took apart. You didn't feel any remorse?"

"What remorse was there to feel?" said Allen Morphol. "At the time, and to this day, I was struck with an intense and burning curiosity to understand what other people might possibly be feeling, if I was to be so bereft. I discovered one thing that interested me very much."

"What was that?" said Techeela.

"The Victors," said Allen, "Are very much like me. They have almost nothing inside of them." He lifted his arm and reached across the short space in between them and used his fore and middle fingers to hold open Techeela's left pair of eyelids. "I think you and I are alike," he said, looking at Techeela Selyck's eye as the pupil narrowed to a floating dot and the eye began to leak water onto Techeela's dark skin. "You're struck with a desire to understand your fellow humans with such intensity that it leaks from you wherever you go," he said. He pinched Techeela's eyelids further apart and watched the pupil shrink. "I look forward to seeing how alike we are," murmured Allen, watching the tiny dot of the pupil, "I expect that you will win this Game, if you can bring yourself to purge whatever is left inside of you. As your mother once told me to do."

"My mother," said Techeela, "Was found guilty of faking her psychology degree and deliberately giving her clients the worst medical advice she could think of as a sadistic joke. If she hadn't killed herself she would have been in prison for life. As it was I spent two years in prison paying for her crimes as an accomplice. I was not an accomplice." He squeezed his eyelids so tightly that they slipped out from underneath Allen's fingers. The pupil was lost under Techeela's skin. "I don't know that we're so alike, Mr. Morphol," he said. "I don't want to hurt people."

"I never strove to hurt anyone," said Allen Morphol. "Only to understand them."

"I think we have a profound difference in how we interpret that," said Techeela.

Allen nodded. His fingers fell away from Techeela's face, and he got to his feet. "Whoever wins this Game will win because they will strip themselves of their humanity. No Victor can win without doing that." He stared down at the boy huddled underneath the sheets. "Can you survive without being human, Techeela?" he said. "It is something you will need to do."

He left the boy before he could answer. Some things were better processed alone.

* * *

 **Vascula Phalanx, 19  
** **District Two Female, Victor of the 147th Hunger Games**

"Welcome to the first strategy meeting of the 148th Hunger Games," said Wishbone. "Tonight's order of business is to elect a leader for the Career alliance based on the two candidates who have offered to take the job." He turned to his right, to where Vascula sat in the chair he'd set aside for her. "Vascula is here to observe," he said, "Since her own tribute this year volunteered outside of Academy bounds and will not be accepted into the Career alliance. Vascula will be offering her tribute no assistance, as the District Two Academy requested, and so having her present at this meeting will put the rest of our tributes in no added danger."

It was a small room, more abandoned broom closet than anything. According to Wishbone, the Career mentors had sequestered it for their strategy meetings decades ago. The white paint on the walls was cracked and webbed with dark brown water stains. The wooden table was small and the quarters were cramped. Vascula's back was pressed into the slats of her chair. She could feel the slats digging into her skin every time she swallowed.

"Before we start proceedings," said Wishbone, waving one broad hand in the air as he spoke, "We'll need opening statements from every mentor." His limbs and trunk rippled with muscle; he seemed far too broad for the delicate table, as though a single thump with his fist on its surface might crack it down the middle. His pit-bull jaw was clenched in concentration. His black eyes scanned the occupants of the table. They were rarely still.

"I'll begin," said Songbird.

She laid her brown hands flat against the table and said "Ivelisse is as manipulative as they come. Sweet, beautiful, friendly. Most of your tributes will love her before the end." Songbird raised black eyes to the bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. "She's not particularly innovative," said Songbird. "She lacks creativity. As long as the Career alliance remains intact, I don't forsee any Game-changing action from her." Songbird shifted so that she was slumped against the back of her chair. A District One signal that she was ceding the floor.

"I'll go next, if no one minds," said Regal. "I have a _great_ deal to tell you about Alluvion, but from the looks most of you just shot my way, I'll do my best to keep it brief." He smiled. It was the kind of smile that included everyone who saw it in its boyish joy, as though everyone in the room had contributed to its being there. "Alluvion is the strangest tribute I've ever had the pleasure of mentoring," he said, "And as you all know, every one of us has mentored some _bizarre_ tributes in the past." He shuddered. "Vascula, you remember your ally from last year? Luxure, I believe?"

"Luxure was his name," said Vascula.

"Right," said Regal. "Poor boy had no chance of winning. He was always _counting_ things. Blades of grass, crystals on a chandelier, bubbles in a wineglass. Do you remember that, Vascula?"

"When he and the other Careers were killing me he counted the number of times I'd been cut," she said.

"Exactly," said Regal. "He was very strange. Alluvion is stranger." His full bottom lip jutted out from his face as he considered what to say. "Alluvion… has a very limited emotional palette," said Regal. "He doesn't get angry. He rarely gets frustrated. The strongest emotion he seems capable of feeling is mild dislike. You know, he quite reminds me of Allen Morphol!"

"Capitol's fuckin' sake, man," said Marr Garcia, from the other side of the table. "Get to the goddamn point already."

Regal raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me," he said, folding his gloved hands and pressing one tightly atop the other. "Kindly keep your opinions to yourself for a moment, Marr." He smiled again. "I wouldn't want to have to cut your eyes out in the strategy room. It would change the tone of the meeting in an unforgivable way. Also it might stain my gloves."

"You're so fuckin' weird," said Marr.

"Moving right along," said Regal. "Alluvion is difficult to get a read on. He's not a friendly person. He doesn't put himself out there in any way whatsoever." Regal scratched his chin. "Fascinating character," he said. "The rest of your tributes are probably going to die."

"We'll see," said Wishbone. "My tribute, Roman Ward, will be a difficult competitor. He is incredibly serious about the Games. He volunteered with absolutely no doubt that he would be capable of winning and operates with extreme efficiency. He treats the Games with the reverence they're supposed to be treated with. Realistically, he will be extremely difficult to beat." He nodded across the table. "Enver," he said. "Tell us about Starla, if you would."

"Capitol," said Enver. When her lips moved, the grotesquerie of her left cheek shifted to follow the movements. From the left corner of her lips the skin of her cheek had been mostly eaten away by infection, or peeled away by Enver Marrington herself when the pus began to fill her mouth every time she swallowed. Through the ragged opening in her cheek it was possible to see most of her teeth, which gave her the illusion of always sporting a half-smirk. "Starla's weak," said Enver. Saliva dribbled from the hole down to her jaw, which she wiped away with the back of her wrist. "She didn't train. She's pretty much useless." Enver rolled green eyes. "She's the whiniest tribute I ever had. Always boo hoo, I don't wanna be a Career, wah wah wah I don't want to be in the Games at all, shut up Enver I bet your advice isn't useful anyway." Enver wiped at the hole again and said, "She's gonna die pretty early, I bet. One of your tributes is gonna use her as a human shield." She shook her head, and her brown hair danced in sheets around her pointed chin. "It's so unfair," she said. "I'm just trying to get off this goddamn _Victor's Village_ shit. Why can't I ever get a normal tribute?"

"Hey," said Marr, leaning forward abruptly, "My tribute this year is not so fuckin' incredible either."

"Yeah, but he _trained,"_ said Enver.

Marr screwed up his thick eyebrows and seemed to consider it. "That's true," he decided, grinning and flashing his yellow teeth at the others around the table. "My guy is not so bad after all. His name is Jax Brooks and he's very, ah, he's a funny guy. He likes to make jokes and do dares and bets and things. He's not very serious about the Games." Marr shrugged his massive, sloping shoulders. "I ask him, What's your favorite torture, and he says, Listening to you talk. Fuckin' rude." He rubbed a hand across the short bristles of his Mohawk. "He'll probably die early," he said. "He's not even excited about killing. Boring as hell."

"Alright," said Wishbone. "That's everyone." He straightened his spine. "As it's getting late, I'd like to get the leadership business over with early so we can head to bed and inform our tributes of the leadership situation first thing tomorrow. Since it's our tributes vying for leadership, Songbird, we can both make a case. Would you like to go first or shall I?"  
"You," said Songbird, arms folded across her chest. A hint of a smile flickered around the corners of her lips.

"Alright." Wishbone leaned back in his seat. "Roman, as I said before, is unbelievably dedicated to the Games and to this alliance. He has no intention of breaking the alliance before every other tribute in the arena is dead, and will do his best to ensure the survival of all of his teammates. He believes in the Careers as an institution." He nodded at Songbird.

"My turn, I suppose," she said. "Well. Ivelisse, as a manipulator, is more than capable of bringing her allies together and making them _want_ to work for her. Career infighting is extremely unlikely with Ivelisse at the helm." In the glaring light from the bare bulb, her skin appeared to be the color of ash. "That's all," she said. "I assume I'm voting for Ivelisse and you're voting for Roman, Wishbone."

"Correct," said Wishbone. "Which leaves District Four and Regal to break the tie. Enver, Marr, what are your votes?"

"Roman," said Enver. "Ivelisse seems like an airhead. No offense, Songbird." But she was grinning as she said it.

"Yeah," said Marr, "Roman. Who cares about that lovey-dovey wanting to work for her shit. They'll all work together anyway or they'll fuckin' die." He bared his front teeth. "My guy's probably gonna die anyway. What are you gonna do, you know?"

Songbird raised her eyes skyward, but did not protest. Wishbone nodded and got to his feet. "Roman wins by default," he said. "Sorry you didn't have a chance to vote, Regal."

"I was planning on voting for Ivelisse, for the record," said Regal.

"My apologies," Wishbone said. "I'll inform Roman of our team decision tonight. The rest of you should do the same with your own tributes." He thumped on the wooden table with his fist. "Good team meeting, everyone. I expect to see you at nine tomorrow." The corners of his lips turned up, very slightly. "If things keep going well, I'm sure many of our tributes will make it to the final fight," he said. "It'll be a finale to remember. I have a good feeling about it."

* * *

 **Hamilton Damask, 43  
** **District Eight Female, Victor of the 120th Hunger Games**

She dug her knuckles into her blue eyes with such ferocity that it felt for a moment as though they might burst free of their moorings and slide out of their sockets and fall onto the table with hideous twin _plops._ Hamilton sighed and pulled her hands away from her eyes. Exhaustion weighed on her like a physical entity. She felt as though her spine might collapse like a badly-constructed tower.

Her tribute fidgeted on the other side of the table, looking as though she were trying to memorize the patterns of the grain. A steaming mug of cocoa sat on her right, but she hadn't touched it. Flax's mouth was small and twisted into a tiny pout. The lines between her eyebrows were very pronounced. Hamilton had come across her on a trip to the bathroom. Flax had been awake much of the night, it seemed.

"So," said Hamilton. Her voice was husky. She wanted very much to go to sleep, right there at the table. "You're feeling anxious about the Games."

Flax nodded. Her eyes flickered up to meet Hamilton's and, once eye contact was established, immediately flickered back down.

 _She's so afraid,_ thought Hamilton. _It's twisted. It's evil._ She wanted to tear the room apart, rant and scream at the cameras she knew were poised in every corner like fat needle-legged spiders. The muscles in her abdomen clenched in anticipation of the rage she felt sure would bubble out from her at any moment. But she took deep breaths, like Wheatgrass Lowe of District Eleven had taught her to. The rage died to a murmur that whispered through her veins and under her skin. A murmur was alright. That she could handle.

"I felt the same way before my Games," said Hamilton. "I couldn't sleep. I could barely eat or drink." She indicated the mug of cocoa. "But it's important that you do, Flax, or in the Games you'll be that much weaker."

Flax nodded and picked up the mug with quick, awkward movements. She took a long draught and settled it back onto the table with a ceramic _clink._ Cocoa powder caked her lips.

The murmur of rage rose to a spitting hiss for a moment. _Deep breaths, Hamilton,_ she told herself, clenching one of her fists under the table where Flax wouldn't see it. The rage cooled. "You have a strategy," she said out loud. "So you know that in that department you're not lacking." Flax showed no sign of recognition, and the tiniest hint of irritation welled up somewhere deep inside Hamilton. It was difficult, having a tribute like this. She hardly spoke, rarely emoted. Her chances were not very high.

But it _wasn't Flax's fault._ She hadn't chosen this. She would never have chosen this.

"Your strategy," said Hamilton. "Is to not present yourself as interesting or a threat in any way. Blend into the background as much as possible. Make them forget you're even alive so they won't remember to come looking for you." It was a nightmare of a strategy on the sponsorship front. But Hamilton's tributes were rarely sponsored anyway. She had found that her ability to play nice with sponsors was seriously limited. She had been _corrected_ on more than one occasion, on account of that.

The exhaustion was threatening to overtake her. She got to her feet. "Remember, Flax," she said. "You can win without playing their Game exactly as they want you to play it."

"... okay," said Flax. Her voice was so small that Hamilton wasn't sure she'd meant to say it.

When she'd seen Flax to bed, she left the District Eight suite and took the elevator to Eleven. Wheatgrass came to the door after the third knock. "It's late, 'Milton," he said. His eyes sagged with sleep. He leaned on the doorframe for support. "Can't this wait until tomorrow?"

"If I don't talk to you, right now," said Hamilton, "I'll burn this building down."

He groaned and let her in. They sat at the dining room table together, both in the soft fluffy robes they were provided for nighttime escapades, both in soft Capitolian silk pajamas. "How's your tribute?" asked Hamilton, to distract herself. She played with one of the flowers in the vase on the table, bending the stem until it threatened to snap.

"Saege is doing very well, actually," said Wheatgrass. "I think he has a real shot at this. He's smart, strong, capable. He got some sponsorship offers during the Opening Party."

"Sponsorship," Hamilton muttered. Her eyes were narrowed. "No one offered Flax a thing. She was too afraid to talk to anyone."

Wheatgrass' mouth twisted. "I'm sorry to hear that, Hamilton," he said. "But if she won't play the Game…"

It was an old argument, one they'd had before. "She _can't_ play the Game, Wheatgrass!" said Hamilton, slapping one hand onto the table with such force that her palm stung. "The Ones, the Twos, the Fours, they can play. Send all of them into a deathmatch and leave the Flax Newells _out_ of it."

"But she has to try," said Wheatgrass. As always, he was calm. He never got upset. Not when she did. "If she doesn't try, she's as good as giving up. Besides," he said, glancing towards the ceiling, "The Capitol is often very good to us. They-"

"I know they're listening and I _don't care_ ," said Hamilton. "They've never arrested me for talking to you before. They won't stop now." With a convulsive jerk of her wrist, she snapped the stem of the flower in the vase. She could feel water leaking from one end of the stem onto her fingers. "If she doesn't play the Game it doesn't mean she's giving up," said Hamilton. "I didn't play and I _won."_

"You won because the Capitol loved how passionate your hatred for them was," said Wheatgrass, without raising his voice. "Flax doesn't have that. She's just afraid. They get bored of fear."

"They're sick."

"They want to be entertained." He closed his eyes and hung his head. "Here's an interesting fact for you, Hamilton. The majority of the people who watch the Games are under thirty. They're children, Hamilton. It's children who watch. Because they've been told it's the thing to do."

"And how does that make it right?" she snapped. She felt as though the stem of the flower were leaking blood onto her hand. Real human blood. She dropped it into the vase and rubbed her hand on her soft robe.

"They don't understand what they're seeing. To them, it's not really real. It's just a show. Like _Victor's Village."_

"Then they're willfully blind. And stupid." She got to her feet. Her rage was simmering now. "I don't know why I always need to talk to you, Wheatgrass. Your devil's advocate thing drives me _crazy."_ She snarled the last word at him, but he just nodded.

"I know," he said. "But sometimes I think you need to be angry, Hamilton. Or you'd do something that we'd all end up regretting."

She thought about that, on the elevator back to the Eight suites. That she needed her anger, or she'd do something drastic. Something the Victors, quite possibly, couldn't come back from.

It would shake things up, anyway.

* * *

 **Beatrice Hunt, 28  
** **District Six Female, Victor of the 138th Hunger Games**

Reuben had her wake up at eight o' clock to rouse their tributes, but when Beatrice went to shake Kara out of her slumber she found Kara and Tucker sitting at the dining table, Tucker chewing a pastry sullenly while Kara sipped coffee from a ceramic mug and tried to blink the sleep out of her blue eyes. She smiled broadly when she saw Beatrice, but her eyes seemed to be fixed on something far away, like only part of her was really present.

That was something Beatrice could understand. She had spent a huge part of her own Games locking most of herself away, so that the Beatrice Hunt Panem was watching was not the core of herself. Although, when she'd killed her last opponent and they finally lifted her out of the neverending series of holes that dug deeper and deeper in the earth, she'd been a bit startled to discover that the core of herself had withered away after all, while she'd fought.

She sat across from the tributes and poured some of the coffee in a gleaming pitcher into an abandoned mug. "Good morning," she said.

"Morning," said Kara. "I hope you slept well, Beatrice."

"I did," said Beatrice, hoping that the dark half-circles under her eyes would not give her completely away. A yawn threatened to shudder its way free from her body, but now she would feel disingenuous if she yawned, so she forced it down as tears sprang to her eyes. "Are you two ready for today?"

"Yeah," said Tucker, who'd finished his pastry and was now eating a fistful of cold cereal. "I'm going to master the sword today. Tomorrow I think I'll work on bow and arrows."

"Right," said Beatrice. _He's going to get her killed,_ she thought, glancing across the table at Kara. _There isn't a realistic bone in his body._ She squirmed and bit her lip. _I wish Kara had never decided to ally with him,_ she thought. _I wish Tucker had never accepted._ But it had happened, and Reuben had been thrilled, in his particular way. He hadn't smiled, or said anything much about it, but that night in bed he'd been even more vicious than usual. The marks still stung. And so she knew he was happy about it. He'd never give her what she really wanted unless he was happy.

 _It's because Kara will get Reuben's tribute much farther than he'd otherwise get,_ she thought, frowning. _I should've told her not to do it. I shouldn't have accepted the alliance request._

But then they'd all be angry with her. Kara, Tucker… Reuben. She might have been able to handle the anger of her tributes. It was unlikely that they'd be around much longer to hate her. But Reuben… When he was angry with her, he was vicious in a very different way than the way she wanted him to be. She felt cold, thinking about him. His ravaged, fire-scorched skin.

"You know," she said, taking a sip of coffee. "Maybe you could focus on handling something a little less flashy, just for starters. Like a knife, maybe, Tucker?"

He wrinkled his nose. Dry cereal spewed from his lips. "C'mon, Beatrice, wouldn't it be a _teensy_ bit more fun to use something cool like a sword? I'll bet you I'll be _real_ good at it by the end of the day!" He jittered in his seat. "Alright, I guess I can pick up some knifework on the side, but I'm pretty positive I'm gonna be killing it with a sword in a few hours." He plucked a grape from its stem and tossed it into his mouth. "Don't worry about me!" he said. "I can definitely handle this. I promise."

Kara winked across the table at Beatrice. "I'll work with you," said Kara. "We'll try swordplay and see how it goes. If we get bored we can always do something else, like survival skills or something. Right?"

"Sure!" said Tucker. "If you really feel like you need to know survival skills I'm not gonna get in your way, Kara. Maybe I can help you out! I bet I'll be really good at trivia."

"I'll bet," said Kara, grinning.

"Well," said Beatrice, "I'm going to go talk strategy with Reuben. Have a good day at training and make sure you both get there at nine!" She shoved away from the table, the chair squealing.

"See you later, Beatrice!" said Tucker.

"Bye, Beatrice," said Kara, waving a delicate hand.

As she walked to Reuben's room, she tried to purge the thought that sat in the center of her brain, gnawing and chewing like a beady-eyed rodent. _Tucker's going to get Kara killed. She's going to die. It's a stupid waste, and it's not fair._ It was a thought that needed to go. Reuben could usually tell what she was thinking. This was a bad stage in the Game to have him angry.

She reached his door and twisted the handle and let herself in. He was working at his desk, as he'd been when she left him. Papers and blueprints that she did not fully understand were scattered under his lamp, which glowed yellow in the dark. He'd kept his curtains closed again.

He was hunched at his desk, but when he heard the door open he turned to face her. The half of his face that had been spared the greater part of the fire was alert, pointed, sharp. Handsome. The other half was bloody, weeping, grotesque. Handsome. His features were like melted wax. But both of his eyes were grey and clear and stared out from his face as though his body was a prison that could do very little to contain what was lurking just underneath the surface of his boiled skin.

She'd watched his Games about a hundred times. Each time she felt even closer to him. She wasn't sure he'd ever watched hers in their entirety.

"They're both awake," she said, going to sit on his bed. It had the cool feeling of a bed that had not been slept in for a while. "They're going to head downstairs after breakfast. Kara's planning on steering Tucker towards survival skills. He wants to learn swordplay."

"He wouldn't even be able to lift a sword," said Reuben. She shivered at the sound of his voice. It was cold, unaffected, with the faintest note of sadistic amusement crept in. Reuben Eyre had very little patience for people he thought were weak. Why he'd taken a shine to Beatrice was anyone's guess. She didn't understand it.

"I know," she said, clasping her hands together and hunching over at the waist. "I think Kara might be able to keep him focused, but I'm not sure."

"She'd better," said Reuben. "I don't have time to waste on him. I'm not telling him what he should or shouldn't do." He passed a hand over the papers on his desk. "I'm busy," he said. "So it's quite convenient that you've been mentoring him for me. Keep doing it."

"Sure," she said. "That's why you wanted them to ally, I figured."

He nodded. Then he glanced at her as if seeing her for the first time. "What time is it?" he said.

She thought about it. "8:45."

"Alright. Take your clothes off." He did not look up from his work, but he did not pick up his pencil again, and in fact remained very rigid in his chair. Waiting.

 _We should probably talk strategy,_ she thought, but he was happy. She could see it in the way one corner of his ravaged mouth seemed almost to be smiling. Even his eyebrows lacked their usual sullen quality. _He's happy,_ she thought. _So he'll give it to me. Everything I want._

She was still marked quite badly from last time. Last time, the bruises had ached for hours. The cuts had stung for days. One of the burn marks was almost deep enough that she wasn't convinced it would ever go away entirely.

 _I really deserve it this time,_ she thought, as warmth and heat pulsed through her. _Saddling Kara with Tucker. I'm selfish. I'm so, so selfish._ The marks on her thighs had begun to throb again. _I'm a coward,_ thought Beatrice Hunt. _I'm a coward who'll let her tribute die to make Reuben Eyre happy, so he'll give me what I want. That's just despicable. Really, it is._

She took her clothes off.


	9. Training: In Which Everybody Sweats

**why am i only capable of updating this story at 1 AM**

 **Anyway, training begins now! Woo hoo! Also, if you still haven't voted in the character poll on my profile, please do! It's very fun and interesting for me to know which characters people actually want to live ahaha**

* * *

 **Zippina "Zippy" Sparks, 15  
** **District Five Female**

On the elevator ride to the gymnasium, Manny had fidgeted quietly and stared at his feet and doodled on his left arm with a pen he'd taken from their suites. Zippy watched him doodle, as they exited the elevator and found themselves in a short padded corridor with one dead end and locked double doors on the other. The corridor was lined with tributes, some speaking quietly with their district partners, most silent and staring at the doors with sleepy eyes. There was a digital clock over the doors. The time was _8:57._

"The doors will unlock when the time reaches 9:00," said Zippy, poking Manny in the shoulder to get his attention. "It's actually a really simple mechanism. Timed unlocking mechanisms are super important for the Games, on account of fairness. There are some books I read about it, in case you'd be interested."

Manny gazed up at her with huge brown eyes that seemed to be magnified by his glasses. "Cuh-cool," he said. He was blushing again, a blush that darkened his brown cheeks to a color that reminded her of tar.

"You blush a lot, Manny," she said, leaning closer to examine the blush. "You might have some kind of chronic blushing disorder."

Manny squealed and took several steps back, stumbling over his own feet until his back thudded against the far wall. "I duh-duh-duh-don't thuh-think I have thuh-thuh-that," he said, holding both of his hands out in front of him like he was surrendering. She could see sweat glittering on his palms in the fluorescent light from the ceiling strip. His blush had darkened.

"I dunno, Manny," she said, wrinkling her nose. "It's either that or serious social anxiety. And you don't have social anxiety because nobody's ever socially anxious around _me."_ Usually Zippy was the one made to feel anxious, when her classmates giggled and called her a kiss-ass or a nerd or a creep. _Nobody's ever afraid of me,_ she thought, and the thought felt like a brick at the bottom of her stomach. _Not that I want them to be. But still. Nobody is._

There was an electronic burst from the doors, which swung open on silent hinges. "Manny!" said Zippy. "C'mon, training's starting!" She waved him away from the wall and slipped into the line of tributes filing in through the doors and into the gymnasium beyond. It was one of the bigger rooms she'd ever seen, almost as big as the ballroom from the night before. The floors and walls were covered in soft blue mats. Throughout the gymnasium were various stations with different signs; some tables, some weapons racks, climbing walls, weights, a wrestling mat, equipment that Zippy hadn't even seen before, so many that the vast gymnasium felt almost cramped. Adults in red athletic gear stood beside each station. _Trainers,_ Zippy thought. _We're supposed to work with them._

Standing on a wooden block was a tall man with his arms folded across his chest, watching as the tributes filed into the room. When every tribute seemed to have situated themselves in front of him, he let his arms fall to his sides. "Alright!" he barked. "My name is Loris, and I'm the Head Trainer here today. Welcome to training. Each of these stations is designed to help you brush up on your skills before the Games. There's about an equal mix of survival skill and weapons training stations, so be sure to work on everything before your three days are up. The trainers are here to help you learn and to spar with you. _No one_ is to spar with another tribute. If we see it happening, each tribute involved will be removed from training and will not be allowed to return for its duration. And so help me Capitol, if _any_ of you attempt to harm another tribute during this period, the consequences will be _much_ more severe for you than you'd expect. Remember, the Gamemakers are watching, and they value fairness over _everything."_

He nodded his bald head. "Alright, explanation over. Get out there and train hard, people." He stepped off the wooden block and waved a hand. "Go on," he said.

So Zippy swiveled her head and scanned the labeled signs on the stations and thought about it. _Survival first,_ she thought, _I should definitely learn about finding water in unfamiliar terrain first, since water is the first thing that will kill me if I don't have any._ She glanced at Manny to find him shivering uncertainly, glancing at the stations with his eyebrows furrowed, hugging himself around the ribs. _He doesn't know where to go,_ Zippy thought. _But I shouldn't butt in. People hate it when I butt in._

But Manny, so far, had been different. He'd always seemed to appreciate her help.

 _It'll be an experiment,_ she decided. _To see how he reacts if I try to help him out. If he doesn't like the advice, well, I think I can handle that because nobody ever does. But if he does like it… Maybe we could work together. Natalie thinks it's a bad idea, but I don't. I think Manny and I could maybe be a good team._

"Hey Manny," she said, not looking at him, trying to keep her voice casual. "The best station to go to first would definitely be the one about water. You need water to survive and I'll bet you don't know how to find it in most terrains. That's where _I'm_ going first."

Manny raised his eyebrows. "Uh-uh-uh-are you ih-ih-in-vuh-viting me?" he said.

"Yeah!" said Zippy. "I feel like we make a good team. Don't you?"

His smile was so dizzyingly wide she thought in that moment that Manny looked happier than she'd ever felt. "Yuh-yuh-yeah!" he said. "Luh-like…" Then he broke off, frowning again, smile beginning to dim.

"Like allies," Zippy blurted. As soon as she said it, she wanted to close her eyes, to shrivel into a dense little speck. _I'm so stupid,_ she thought. _That was too abrupt. He probably doesn't want to ally anyway and why would he? What's so special about me? Everyone hates me. Even Natalie thinks I'm annoying._

She opened her eyes. The smile Manny was sporting now was somehow brighter than the one he'd had before. She could feel it, it was so warm. She felt like she was being bathed in light.

"Allies," said Manny. "Yeah. We can buh-be allies."

She smiled to herself.

"That's settled, then," she said, waving Manny towards the water station. "As allies, we stick together like we have been anyway. I'll show you everything you need to learn. By the end of this training period you're gonna be as smart as I am! It's all about perseverance, Manny. That's what's really important."

Natalie was gonna be mad. She didn't think there was anything redeeming about Manny. And it was true that he didn't really have so many skills, and didn't seem _quite_ as quick on the uptake as Zippy.

But that was okay. He had that smile that made her feel warm and light. And he listened to her without rolling his eyes or walking away or laughing at her.

 _That's friendship,_ she thought. _I think maybe me and Manny are friends now._

The feeling was so good it was indescribable.

* * *

 **Dante Blackthorn, 18  
** **District Twelve Male**

For a while he stood off to one side of the gymnasium and scanned the names of every station. He was not alone in doing so. From across the room he could see Theresa eyeing the stations with narrowed eyes, and several other tributes were doing the same. At the station marked "Water" he saw Zippy gesticulating wildly while a trainer in red jabbed a finger at what looked like a map. Manny sat and stared at Zippy. Dante smiled in spite of himself.

Then there were the Careers, who had drifted together to form a loose circle. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the wall, and watched them. All were well-built, athletic, seemed for the most part unafraid. His upper lip threatened to curl back, but Dante forced it still and toed the blue mat under his feet with the tip of his sneaker. _This is what they do,_ he thought. _One and Two and Four. They choose to come here so that they can kill us. And then each other._

He shook his head, pushed away from the wall, and walked between stations to the one marked "Water." The trainer huffed and wiped sweat away from her forehead upon seeing him. "Welcome," she said, motioning for him to sit in one of the plastic chairs set up around her table. "I was just doing my _best_ to explain how to find water in various terrains."

Dante pulled back a chair, which skidded across the surface of the blue mat. He settled into the seat, feeling the legs sinking under his weight. "Hey, Dante!" said Zippy, swiveling in her seat to flash a quick smile in his direction. "You remembered what I said about being on time!"

"Yep," he said. "Hey, Manny."

"Hey," said Manny, raising one hand and wiggling his fingers. His eyes never left the back of Zippy's head.

"Now," said the trainer, smoothing the map in her hands. "What I was doing my best to explain is that water follows gravity. Do you know what gravity is?"

Zippy's hand shot into the air. "It's the force that objects exert on each other," she said. "In our case, the Earth is so much bigger compared to us that the magnitude of its gravitational force is incredibly huge. But actually, we exert force on it too. Every single person and every single thing on the whole planet actually tugs on it in the same way it tugs on us!" Then the manic light seemed to dim in her eyes, and she frowned and slumped back in her seat. "Sorry," she said, "I'm not trying to waste your time or anything, Dante. I know you're here to learn about water. Not gravity."

"It's okay," said Dante. "It's interesting."

Zippy smiled, rocking from side to side in her plastic chair. The warmth he'd felt when they'd met last night suffused his stomach and the back of his throat. _She's so smart,_ he thought to himself. _And so eager to please. Poor kid. She wouldn't have been popular back home, I bet._

And then there was Manny, tiny Manny who hadn't once looked at the trainer or the map or anything other than Zippy in the entire time Dante had been sitting with them. _He trusts her,_ thought Dante. _Even here. Knowing that they're both contestants in a death match. He's so earnest. It's not safe. They're not safe, not either of them._

"Moving on," said the trainer. "Water flows from high ground to low ground. If you follow the slope of the land around you, you should come across the water in your travels."

"But what if the land has no slope?" said Zippy. "What if we end up on a flat plain, or a desert, or an internal structure?"

"I'll cover all of those," said the trainer, whose eyes had begun to narrow. "When I get to them."

In the end, he sat with Zippy and Manny and the trainer for over an hour. He paid more attention to the tributes than to the trainer. Manny stayed quiet and rapturous. Zippy absorbed everything that the trainer told her and regurgitated it with speed and intensity that startled him. _She's_ very _smart,_ he thought. _And she and Manny seem to like me well enough. Zippy's so determined to be useful that in the arena… when it came to it, anyway, I think she'd want to do her best to help me. And Manny would do his best to help her._

 _Mom, Holly, Rosie, Lilac, I could get home to them. I could get home to my family._ The longing was so strong that he had to glance at the ceiling for a moment to keep himself in check.

"Capitol, kid, watch where you're _going."_

He grimaced, very slightly. _That_ reminded him of home, too. Before the Peacekeepers put a bullet in his father.

He looked down from the ceiling and swiveled in his seat, the trainer still mid-sentence. Behind him, the tall girl with the wild dyed hair from District Four stood glaring at a smaller red-haired boy whose district Dante could not remember. A gleaming silver trident hung from the girl's hand, tines aimed in the boy's direction. "I'm sorry," the boy was saying. "I didn't mean to get in your way."

"You know what would've happened if I'd stuck you with this?" said the girl, glaring. "You would've friggin _died,_ and I'd be in a hell of a lot of trouble. They'd probably rig the Games so I wouldn't win. So cool it with the zipping around and just sit down somewhere."

"Okay," said the boy, nodding, heading for the empty chair next to Dante. "Sorry."

"Maybe you should be more careful with the trident," said Dante.

As the girl turned to him, he got up from the chair and kicked it away with his left foot. She was tall, but he was taller, and he looked down at her and crossed his arms over his chest. "We're all just trying to train," he said. "Cool off."

The trident in her hand was shaking. He watched it bouncing up and down, one of the lights on the ceiling reflecting off the polished shaft and dazzling his eyes. "Hey," she said, "Don't tell me to cool off. I'm trying to train _just_ as much as you." She looked at the trident as if seeing it for the first time. "I- I don't even really know how to use this thing," she said. "I could've _killed_ him. I could've killed him."

Their eyes met. Hers were huge and green and glittering. Then she whipped around and hurried for another station, clutching the trident in a white-knuckled grip.

He watched her for a while. Then he turned to the red-haired boy who had obediently sat in the plastic chair and was now drumming his feet against its base. The boy glanced up at him, smiled crookedly. "Thanks," he said. "That was cool of you."

"Sure," said Dante. His heart had begun to pound at some point during the confrontation. He hadn't noticed. Now it thudded in his ears like the reverberations of approaching war drums. "No problem."

He sat back down. The boy eyed him, and offered a hand. "I'm Ichabod Teff," he said. "District Nine."

"Dante Blackthorn. District Twelve. That's Zippy and Manny," he added, pointing at them. "They're from District Five."

Zippy glanced up upon hearing her name. "Oh," she said. "Hi. You're the guy from Nine, right? Ichabod? I watched your reaping." She looked at him for a moment. "I cried onstage at my reaping too," she said. "So don't worry about not getting any sponsors whatsoever. I bet you still have a chance. A smaller chance, but you still have one."

"Well," said Ichabod. "Thanks."

The chatter continued. Dante leaned back in his chair and glanced at the trainer and her map, but his mind was in Twelve, in the woods. With his family. Setting snares and digging roots. _My family,_ he thought. The chatter around him soothed him, relaxed him. _It's like I'm with_ _my family,_ he thought, seeing District Twelve, seeing the blue of a gym mat. _I'll be okay._

* * *

 **Techeela Selyck, 17  
** **District Three Male**

"Again," said the trainer, and Techeela hefted the sabre in his right hand and stepped into the fight like it was a dance. Shifting his weight between both feet, arms outstretched, body as low to the ground as he could make it. He watched the trainer, watched as the man eyed him up and down, searching for a weakness. _I wonder if this man loves the Hunger Games as much as his peers,_ Techeela thought, as the trainer lunged forward and swiped out at his shoulder. _Or if training with the children who go to die lessens the fun of the Games._ He danced to the right, and the blunted edge of the trainer's sabre pierced air. With the man's arm outstretched, it felt natural to Techeela to bring his own sabre up to gently nudge the underside of the man's arm before he could draw it back in.

"If these were the Games," said Techeela, "That probably would've shorn through half your arm."

"Probably," said the trainer, taking a few steps away. "You train back in Three? You seem to know your way around a sabre."

"I fenced," said Techeela, "Before I went to prison. It was a hobby of mine." He crossed over the mat to where the others swords had been hung in a rack and replaced the sabre he was holding. "You were going easy on me, I'm assuming?"

"Oh, yeah," said the trainer. "But I'm still impressed. Skills like that, you could take out half the tributes here, no problem."

Techeela glanced out at the gymnasium. As the morning wore on, the other tributes seemed to be falling into the routine of training. _Easy to get your mind off what's coming if you focus really hard,_ thought Techeela. He could see his district partner Delta dangling off the far wall, clinging to the climbing ropes that were latticed up to the ceiling. The boy he'd met last night at the Opening Party, Ichabod, was hanging around with a small group- the two from Five and an older boy Techeela did not recognize. The Careers were interspersed throughout the gym; one could usually be found at a station with another tribute present. _Like they're trying to intimidate us,_ thought Techeela. _Because that's almost certainly what they're trying to do._

"Thank you," he said to the trainer. "I think I'll be taking a break for a while. I'll probably come back before training ends."

"Sure," said the trainer, "When you do we can try working on some more advanced stuff. I can't promise you'll ever be ready to fence a Career, but I can get you close."

Techeela nodded, walked away. From all around him came the murmur of voices, the clang of metal scraping against metal. _Where do I go now?_ he thought. There were the survival stations, which were a gamble; if the arena was a manmade internal structure, as it often was, most survival skills would be obsolete. He could always practice hand to hand combat, which he had tasted often enough back _there._ His eyes clouded. _If anything,_ he thought, _They prepared me well._ And he remembered the punches and the kicks and fingers squeezing into his throat until stars exploded behind his eyes. He brushed a hand over his cheekbone. The memory of a dozen knuckles digging into it brought a phantom pain singing to the surface of his skin. _That's over and done with,_ he reminded himself, _I'm here now, and this is its own form of prison but at least we're all being civil._

For the time being, anyway.

He blinked. Crossing between stations a few feet ahead of him came his district partner, sweat standing out on the backs of her shoulders. "Delta," he said. She turned around, several strands of her brown curls slicked black with sweat and clinging to the sides of her face.

"Hey," she said, swiveling to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Are you about to ask me a million questions about what training is doing to my mental state?" She leaned back far enough that he heard several _pops_ from her spine. "I'll tell you right off the bat," she said. "It's not doing anything good."

"That's interesting," said Techeela, coming closer. The manacle around his wrist brushed against the back of his hand. The cold bit. "It looks like training is distracting most other people."

"I guess it's distracting," said Delta, glancing around at the rest of the gymnasium. "The Hunger Games is a pretty _enormous_ thing to be distracted from, though. If other people are letting a few trainers distract them from that, then I don't know. I don't know how they could."

She had begun to walk towards a station advertising various knife skills. Techeela fell into step behind her. "I wanted to ask you about last night," he said. "After the Party. I heard you smashing glasses in the kitchen. Why did you do that? Why did you wait until you were alone?"

Delta frowned. "You were spying on me?" she said.

"No," said Techeela. "You were incredibly loud."

She stopped in her place, sneakers squealing against the mat. "Do you have to always be asking me this stuff?" she said. "Can't you figure me out _without_ the questions? I've seen you do it to other people."

"I could," said Techeela. "But it's nice to hear it from you."

She rolled brown eyes. "I already told you that I ended up in prison those times because me and Peacekeepers don't get along. And you managed to wrangle some of my backstory out of me." Her face was focused and intense, like the thick column of light from a floodlight. "Careful, Techeela," she said. "It's dangerous to be invested in other people out here."

"Don't worry about me," said Techeela. "I'm just curious."

"You know what they say about curiosity?" said Delta. "It killed the tribute."

"I think I'll be alright," he said.

She shook her head. "Look," she said. "I'm going to go learn about knives. We can continue this conversation over there if you want." He nodded, and they resumed their walk. Delta was biting her lip.

"What gives?" he said, pointing at the spot where her teeth pressed down into her skin. She sucked her lip out from between her teeth without looking at him.

"I'm thinking," she said. They'd reached the knives station, a table next to a small ring likely put in place for knife fighting demonstrations.

"About what?" said Techeela.

She sat in one of the chairs next to the table. "About what we're going to do in the arena."

He sat next to her. "I'm sure we'll figure it out."

"Maybe." She picked up a knife, let it dangle between a few of her fingers. "I hope so." Then, without warning, she plunged it so far into the table that the hilt brushed up against the wood. "Or we'll die," she said.

 _Tough,_ he thought. _Cold. Jaded. Angry at authority. But there's good in her. Compassion. Love of children and the weak._

Then he thought, _I don't think I can kill her, knowing all that. I don't see how I could._

Maybe she was right. As he reached for a knife, Techeela frowned. _Maybe,_ he thought, _Curiosity_ does _kill the tribute, after all._

* * *

 **Roman Ward, 18  
** **District Two Male**

In one corner of the gymnasium, four long tables had been set up for lunch. By the time Roman stopped fiddling with a snare that had fallen hopelessly apart in his hands, the rest of his allies had found themselves seats and were chatting as they waited for the Avoxes to bring food their way. Besides the Careers, their table was empty. The rest of the tributes sat themselves at the other three tables, casting hooded glances in the direction of the loudest, most confident table. _It's like the Academy all over again,_ thought Roman, sliding into a place next to Alluvion. He'd always been at the popular, confident table back home too.

"Hey," he said, glancing at the faces in the alliance. _His_ alliance. Across the table, Starla, Jax and Ivelisse were sitting three in a row. Jax was attempting to engage Starla in a conversation, while Ivelisse picked at her fingernails and cast him a quick smile across the table when their eyes met. _I'm glad there's no hard feelings about the leadership thing,_ Roman thought. _Ivelisse is a reasonable girl, I guess. I was concerned she wouldn't be._

"Hi," said Ivelisse, waving across the table.

"'Sup?" said Jax.

"Good to see everyone," said Roman. Avoxes had begun to serve their table, and he smiled and thanked the white-uniformed girl who whisked a bowl of creamy soup under his face. "How did training go?"

"Hmm," said Jax, searching the table for a spoon. "Well, I intimidated the living _hell_ out of the girl from Seven. Nobody's ever been so scared by bivouac-making in their life, I think."

"I did pretty much the same as Jax," said Ivelisse, sipping her soup. "Only I targeted the boy from Eight." She grimaced, her straight white teeth glittering. "I told him if I saw him in the arena I'd… oh, it's embarrassing, I don't wanna say!"

"No you literally have to," said Jax. "You can't bring something up and then not say it. That's, like, evil."

"Ugh, fine." She swatted Jax on the forearm. "So needy. Well… I told him I'd cut him crotch to crown." A blush rose to her cheekbones. "That's such a creepy thing to say," she said. "I don't know why I open my mouth sometimes."

"No," said Roman, "It was good! It means he'll think twice before messing with us." He turned to Alluvion. "How'd it go for you?"

"Fine," said Alluvion, tearing into a chunk of brown, warm bread. Roman could smell the butter. "I told the guy from Eleven that if we met up in the arena I'd probably kill him." From anyone other than Alluvion it might have seemed like an idle threat. But from Alluvion, with the hydra sprawling over his cheek, the cold fish-like dead eyes that stared out from his skull, it was probably enough.

Roman turned to Starla. "How did training go? Do you feel better with a trident?"

"A bit," she said, squirming under the collective gaze of the Careers. "I only trained for like, two years back home. So it's hard." Sweat was collecting on her temples. "But I'm working on it," she muttered. "I'll figure it out." When he glanced at her hands, he saw they were bruised, blisters starting to crop up. _She's working hard,_ he thought. _That's important. I made the right choice, allowing her in._

Someone came up beside him and sat down.

At first, bizarrely, he thought it was an Avox. The idea that it might be a tribute seemed more far-fetched. Roman swiveled in his seat, stared at the girl who'd swiped his bread from under him and was now tearing chunks off and swallowing them whole. Her skin was the color of beechwood, her build so skinny that he thought idly that he could twist her head off with a single jerk. Her face was covered in old scars and scabs. A patch by her jawbone looked as though it had been bleached white.

"Hi," said the girl. "I'm Clover Forney. District Eleven."

Roman narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest. "Let me guess," he said. "You want to join." It happened fairly regularly, untrained tributes wanting the advantage the Careers provided. _But I'm already being generous enough with Starla,_ he thought. _Unless she's something good, she can walk._

"You got it," said Clover. "I've got a sales pitch and everything."

"Alright," said Roman. "Talk."

Clover had finished with the bread. Her fingers crawled across the table, lighting finally on a butter knife that she began to fiddle with. "It's a short pitch," she said. "I'm smart. More than smart. I'm creative, bold, and confident. I solve problems in ways that most people wouldn't even think of." She blade of the butter knife scraped against the table, squealing until Clover pulled it away. "I know you can't know that I'm as good as I say," she said. "But I can prove it to you."

Roman glanced around the table. Ivelisse and Jax were leaning forward. Starla was staring at the knife in Clover's hand with a pout on her face. Alluvion did not appear to be listening to the conversation at all. "Prove it," he said.

"Sure." She dropped the butter knife and steepled her fingers. "Give me a job," she said. "Anything you want done that you can't figure out how to do yourselves. A job and twenty-four hours. If it's possible, I'll be able to do it."

He brought his hand up to his face. "A job," he said. "You really think you can figure out a solution to anything I throw at you?"

She nodded. "I really do," she said.

 _Well,_ thought Roman, _She's either suicidally confident or she means what she says._ "Why do you want to be in this alliance?" he asked. "If you're so smart you should be fine out there on your own."

"Absolutely not," she said, without a moment's hesitation. "I'm not a fighter. If you came for me in the Bloodbath I'd die before I had a chance to put any plans in motion." She frowned. "I give you wild, creative, _interesting_ ideas. You protect me. It's a win-win."

He raised his eyebrows. "Well," he said, "You want a job? We can do that." He swiveled in his seat. "Anyone want to see something interesting happen?"

"Turn all the trainers' clothing pink," said Jax. "Replace all the weapons with cleverly-shaped chocolate replicas. _Explode the Gamemakers._ Explode the other tributes. Explode _yourself_ and _come back to life."_

Clover reared back slightly, unsmiling, as Roman held up a hand. "You've got something there, Jax," he said.

"So Project Choco-Weaps is a go?" said Jax.

"No," said Roman. "But here's something tough for you, Clover. You want into the Career alliance?" He leaned forward. "Injure another tribute and don't get caught. Head Trainer Loris said it would be suicidal to get caught. So don't." He turned back to his soup. "Your twenty-four hours just started," he said. "Good luck, Clover."

Her brown eyes widened. It was as if they were translucent, and he could _see_ the machinery behind them surging and shuddering to life.

She nodded, got up, and walked away without a word. Roman watched her skinny back for a moment. When he turned back around, his alliance was still staring after her. Jax cleared his throat. "Okay," he said. "I'm not trying to be rude here. Really I'm not. But, I mean. What is up with her _face?"_

Ivelisse burst out laughing. Starla snorted. Even Alluvion's lips turned up into an almost-smile.

"Think she'll figure something out?" asked Ivelisse.

Starla shook her head. "Nah," she said, scraping the last of the soup from her bowl. "Clover gon' die."

* * *

 **Elliot Sole, 18  
** **District Eight Male**

Elliot leaned against the far wall and watched Saege Olyviere swing the scythe again and again. Cutting the dummy's ribs and hips and neck and skull into thin strips of oblivion. As cotton rained down on the mat like thick wet pieces of flesh, Elliot thought, _I need him. If I want to ally with anyone in these Games, it's him._

The Careers were, of course, out of the question. Trained killers all of them. There was no way they would respect him for what he was: a street rat with some fights behind him, but nothing like what their Academies had put them through. And he'd rejected his district partner Flax just as quickly. She had clearly mastered the art of disappearing (in truth he hadn't seen her since training began, although he'd kept half an eye out) and while there was often use for someone like that, he couldn't see her lasting very long.

Elliot didn't need someone who would vanish. He needed someone who would _intimidate._ And so far, his favorite candidate was the boy who was even now cutting into the dummy with enough force to tear out its viscera.

Elliot pushed away from the wall and strolled to the dividing ropes that separated the scythe training dummies from the spears next door. He stopped by the rack of spears, picking one up and hefting it in his hand. The weight was unbelievable. _This is not for me,_ he thought, rolling the shaft along his palm. _I couldn't kill someone with this. Except maybe myself. Too hard to use._

He peered at Saege out of the corners of his eyes. Saege was almost as tall as Elliot, muscular where Elliot had always been lean. They had similar complexions; Saege must have been an outlier in Eleven, which tended to produce tributes with darker skin. It was difficult to read his expression as he hacked at the dummy, but there was no immediate weakness. It was a good sign.

Elliot slotted the spear back into its rack. "I don't know how you do it," he said, strolling to the ropes and leaning on them. There was a moment he was unsure they'd hold his weight, but with his forearms balanced on the ropes he felt that he would not fall over. "Your scythe, I mean," he said, nodding at the weapon. "Seems tough."

Saege let the scythe fall to his side. The curved tip flashed past one of his legs. There was sweat running down his broad neck. "It is," he said. "If I hadn't grown up learning how to use this thing I don't think it'd be so easy for me right now." His shoulders rose and fell as he breathed. "I'm Saege Olyviere," he said. "From Eleven."

"Elliot Sole," said Elliot. "District Eight. I don't want to sound like a creep, but I've been watching you for a while."

"Oh," said Saege. "Well. I guess you're about to explain what you mean by that."

"Absolutely." Elliot nodded, grabbed a fistful of rope and shoved it to the ground so he could step over it. Once he was in the scythe area, he thrust out his hand. "I don't want to go it alone in the arena," said Elliot, "And I have a feeling you don't either. What do you say?"

Saege raised his eyebrows, but reached out to shake Elliot's hand. "Honestly," he said, "And I'm not trying to be rude here, but I don't know you at all."

"Good point," said Elliot. "Well. What would you be looking for in an ally, if you wanted one?"

"Loyal," said Saege at once. "A good fighter. Someone who knows how to survive."

"Well," said Elliot, spreading his hands. "Coincidentally, those are the things I'm looking for in an ally too, _and_ they're qualities I have." He smiled. "Were you an orchard worker in District Eleven, Saege?"

"Yep," said Saege. "I hauled equipment and fruit loads, mostly."

"Well," said Elliot, "I had a job too. I ran the most respected youth gang in District Eight."

"Oh," said Saege. "I mean, wow. That's… not something I hear very often." He raised one hand, palm facing Elliot. "I'm not trying to be judgemental!" he said. "Just surprised."

"You're fine," said Elliot. "My point was more that leading a gang taught me all sorts of interesting things. I know how to fight. Not anything sophisticated, but I know how fights work and I've been in a fair few. I know how to steal," and he winked and drew a dirty metal necklace out from his back pocket. "This is your token, right? Nicked it a few hours ago." He tossed it to Saege, who caught it with his free hand and slipped it back into his pocket.

"I didn't even notice it was gone…" he muttered. "Hope you haven't been doing that to anyone else."

"You're lucky number one!" said Elliot. "But in the arena I plan on stealing every single thing I can get my hands on, and sharing those things with whoever's got my back." His gaze softened. "I'm giving you the same pitch I give people I want to start off in my gang, pretty much," he said. "I'm a good leader, I'm fair, and I won't pull anything funny as long as you do the same. We scratch each other's backs. We can get almost to the end like that, I bet." He smiled. "There's a couple days left of training. We could train together, get a feel of each other's styles." The smile widened into a grin. "We could scare the crap out of the Careers. You know one of them told me she was going to saw me in half from my balls to my forehead? Those people are crazy."

Saege winced. "Capitol," he said. "That's awful."

"I know," said Elliot. "And I don't want to go up against them alone. I don't think you want that, either."

The scythe in Saege's hand brushed the mat. "It's a lot to take in," he said.

"Sure," said Elliot. "Most people feel that way."

But Saege nodded. "I'll train with you," he said. "We'll give this a shot." He glanced down at the mat. "You're not wrong," he said. "About the Careers. Alone it's easier for them… to do what they do." He frowned. "Not so easy when there's more than one of us. Not so easy to _hunt."_ The last word was so low Elliot barely caught it. "Besides," he added, "If this doesn't work out we don't need to ally in the arena. No hard feelings."

"Of course," said Elliot.

"But I hope it does," said Saege. "I really do."

They trained together the rest of the day, Saege attempting and failing to teach Elliot the proper way to use a scythe. By the time they headed to the elevators Elliot was sore, sweaty, and smiling more than he had since he'd been reaped.

What he'd needed was someone useful, someone strong and intimidating and trustworthy enough that Elliot would only have to cast the usual amount of glances over his shoulder. Saege was compassionate as he was strong, smart as he was dangerous. _He won't betray me, not early at least, because we're too useful to each other before all the Careers are dead,_ Elliot thought, as he stepped into an empty elevator and pressed the proper button. _And by the time the Careers are dead I think the Game will be over, one way or another._

And yet the time for smiling was over. As the elevator whirred and hummed and carried him to his suite, he felt a bone-deep exhaustion chilling into him. _This Game_ will _be over soon,_ he thought. _One way or another._ His fists clenched. _I've got to get back to the others,_ he thought. _They'll fall apart without me._

Elliot would charm, would intimidate, would kill. All of it, as long as he could come home at the end. It was a fair trade.

 _Don't forget me, District Eight,_ he thought. _I'll be back tearing hell before too long. I swear I will be._

He had to keep thinking it.


	10. Training: In Which People Come Together

**Sorry this took forever! I'm studying abroad and it took me a while to get my bearings, but I think I've got it all figured out now and I'm ready to continue _Long Way Down!_ Expect updates to come around twice a month? I am _very_ busy now ahaha.**

 **Vote in the poll! Pls!**

* * *

 **Jackson "Jax" Brooks, 17  
** **District Four Male**

By the time they managed to stumble onto the elevator, the time on the electric clock over the steel doors read _9:17._ "We're late," said Jax, as the doors slid closed. "Do you think Roman's gonna torture us in the middle of training for it?" Then he yawned, jaws forced to gaping by the intensity of it. "I'm so tired," he said. His eyes streamed tears. "If I fall asleep during training," he said, brushing some of the tears away with the back of his hand, "Just kill me."

"No problem," said Starla. Her green eyes were fixed on the slim gap between the elevator doors. Underneath each eye was a half-moon of puffy, plum-colored skin. "I'm ready to die myself." From somewhere above them came a single chime. The elevator doors slid open. "Oh, Capitol," said Starla, stumbling into the corridor. "If the Games are like this, color me a Bloodbath." Then she scowled.

"If we have to wake up anytime before noon," said Jax, "I'll murder a Gamemaker."

"Sure," said Starla. They walked up the corridor to the gym. Jax pushed open one of the doors and held it for Starla. "Make sure you say that a little louder," she continued, walking into the gym, "So they know how tired you get in the morning and send mutts after you."

"Pshh," Jax muttered. "They'd better not. That's unsportsmanlike."

The training gymnasium was as busy as it had been the day before. The movement of the other tributes seemed so vibrant and awake to Jax that he had to yawn again. "Capitol," he said. "What did Roman want us to do today?"

"I'm practicing with the trident," said Starla. "I dunno what you're supposed to be doing."

He raised his eyebrows, grinned a bit. "I still can't believe you chose the trident," he said. "Of all the stereotypical District Four weapons. I could've gotten you _real_ good at throwing knives before the Games."

"Genius idea," said Starla. "And then have us fight over the knives in the arena?" She snorted, rolled her eyes. "It's bad enough that Ivelisse and Alluvion are both bowmen," she said. "You _know_ there's gonna be some weird District One fight about a bow at some point."

"Who knows?" said Jax, shrugging. "Ivelisse is a nice person, and Alluvion… well, I think if he emoted more it'd be easier to tell, but I don't think he'd get super worked up about it."

She smirked. "I'm gonna go over to my station," she said. "You'll figure something out. You always seem to."

"You know it!" called Jax, after her retreating back. "I'm the king of doing something fun when I have important stuff to be doing instead!"

A small group of tributes passed between him and Starla and he lost track of her. He rocked back and forth on his heels and drummed his fingers on the sides of his legs. _What now?_ he thought, scanning the stations. Roman had told them to intimidate, if they could. _I'm not doing that again,_ he thought, rolling his tired eyes skyward. _That was ridiculous. The girl from District Seven was actually laughing a little, I think._

As he watched the crowd, a familiar shape came surging out from behind a row of tables. The first thing he made eye contact with was Alluvion's tattoo. _Hydra,_ he thought, staring at it, recognizing the many-headed monster emblazoned on the walls of District Four's Justice Building. He glanced at Alluvion's right arm, at the thorns and barbed wire and incomprehensible symbols that crawled their inky way up his arm to disappear underneath his shirt sleeve.

"Hey!" called Jax, cutting across the gym floor to fall into step beside Alluvion. "What're you up to? You look like you're about to murder somebody. Is it a Gamemaker?"

Alluvion did not turn to look at him. "I was going to take paint from the camouflage station and dump it on Ivelisse."

Jax sucked in a breath. " _No,"_ he said.

"Yep. More fun than training."

"By the Capitol," said Jax, quickening his pace to keep up with Alluvion. "You're a legend."

In the end, they acquisitioned a can of pink and a can of yellow, and hunted down Ivelisse where she sat at a mutt identification station, picking up laminated pictures of mutts and more often than not coming up blank on their names. Even in the baggy training clothes she seemed perfectly manicured, perfectly poised. She did not even look up as they flanked her, positioned their cans, and turned them over onto her head.

The resulting scream was so loud that Jax's ears were still ringing when Ivelisse grabbed him around the collar and shook him. "You little brat!" she wailed. Pink and yellow paint pooled at her crown, streaked down through her blonde curls to drip off the ends of her hair onto her t-shirt. "Do you know how long my stylist had to work on my hair?! And _you—"_ And here she lunged at Alluvion, who sidestepped to avoid a swipe from her long nails, now decorated with pink and yellow droplets. "You son of a— You should _know_ better, Alluvion, _you're from District One!"_

Jax had fallen to the floor after Ivelisse shook him, and remained on the mat, laughing so hard he thought his core muscles might overexert themselves. "Oh Capitol, Ivelisse," he wheezed. "Your hair looks like Starla's!"

"I hate you," said Ivelisse, fluttering tragic eyelashes dripping with pink. "I hate you both. I'm not even kidding."

"You'll forgive us, though," said Jax, sitting up. "We're lovable."

"In your dreams, fish boy," she muttered. "I have to go take a shower. When I get back here I expect _presents."_ Her eyes narrowed.

They watched her walk away, leaving pink and yellow footprints in her wake. "What kind of present are you thinking?" said Jax.

Alluvion seemed to consider this. "More paint," he said.

This time, Jax laughed so hard that it devolved into an intense coughing fit. It took him fifteen minutes to recover.

* * *

 **Saege Olyviere, 18  
** **District Eleven Male**

At 11:15 Saege hefted the weights in both of his hands and swung them back onto their racks. The metal reverberated and clattered so hard that the vibrations shook his teeth.

Elliot turned at the sound, let the bar across his shoulders fall and bounce against the padded floor. "You done?" he said. "If you're going back to scythe training I won't be joining you. I'm not learning how to wield something like that in three days." His smile was crooked. Sweat stood out on his temples and on the vein that leaped on the side of his throat.

"No," said Saege, "I was just going to go to the bathroom." Then he paused, considering. _Do I tell him? This alliance probably won't work if I keep secrets from him._

"Actually, that's not all," Saege said, drawing nearer. Elliot stepped in, swiveled so that he blocked Saege from the rest of the gymnasium with his body. _He knows I've got a secret to tell,_ thought Saege. _He's making sure nobody else can hear it. I guess he sees this sort of thing in his gang all the time._

"What is it?" said Elliot. His voice was low, conspiratorial. "Are you safe, Saege? Did someone threaten you? I know the Careers have been watching us."

"It's not the Careers," Saege said. His voice was so low he could barely hear his own words. "It's my district partner, Clover. This morning, she asked me to meet her in the bathroom at 11:20. She says she needs a favor."

Elliot pulled away slightly, raising a hand to rub at his chin. "Interesting," he said. "Do you think she wants to join our alliance?"

"She's trying to join the Careers," said Saege. "She told me that much. I don't know what she wants with us." He frowned. "I think something about her joining the Careers hinges on me. On us. I can't figure out what, though."

Elliot scanned the gymnasium with narrowed eyes. "Alright," he said. "You should go. Find out what she wants and don't make her any promises." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Come back to me when you figure out what's going on," he said. "I'm going to scope the rest of the tributes for potential allies." He glanced at Saege. "What do you think about the girl from Seven? Jasper? She seems handy with an axe."

"She could work," said Saege. "In a fight I think she'd back us up."

Elliot nodded. "Alright, then. If you don't come back in twenty minutes I'll come looking for you." One of his hands curled into a white-knuckled fist. "If she's stringing us along," he said, "If she tries anything, tell me. I'll take care of it."

There was something almost casual about the way he'd said it. _He's done it before,_ Saege thought, as he walked away from the weight training mats and headed for the far side of the gym where the bathrooms were. _Who knows the things he's done back in Eight. The way he talks about discipline, fighting, killing, it's all so… routine. Day to day kind of stuff. And I'm with him now, for better or worse._

For better. It was what Saege had decided, after a long conversation with his mentor Wheatgrass Lowe. Elliot was confident, clever enough to recognize that Saege would be a valuable asset, no stranger to circumstances that would have chewed up any number of the other tributes he would be facing. And he _would_ be facing them. _The Careers,_ thought Saege, _Would have been coming for me no matter what. I'm too big and too good with a scythe for them to ignore. But if I'm with Elliot, he'll watch my back for me. It's how he operates. And if I'm loyal until the end, in the final fight… When it's all over… I could take him. I think I could take him._

It was a thought that was accompanied with a twinge of nausea. Already the thought of a fight with Elliot Sole needled at the edges of Saege's conscience. _He has to die,_ Saege thought. _If I want to win… Him and Clover and all the others._

The nausea was getting worse.

He reached the short corridor that led to the bathrooms, slipped into the darkness feeling something like relief. Seeing the other tributes working their hardest, fumbling with weapons they would never really learn how to use, making paper-thin friendships that would tear once the cannons started sounding… _I want to go home,_ he thought.

He shoved open the bathroom door with one palm and stepped inside. His first thought was, _Someone turned on all the faucets._ Each sink was gurgling out as much water as it seemed capable of, the taps splayed apart at odd angles. In the row of stalls, only one was half-ajar. Clover was sitting on the lid of the toilet seat, arms crossed over her chest, fingers digging into her upper arms. When their eyes met, she lifted a hand and beckoned him into the stall with a jerk of her wrist.

He slipped into the stall and closed the door behind it, latching it with a click. "Right," he said, turning around, "What's going on?"

"Lower your voice, okay?" said Clover, who'd gotten up and was facing him. Her own voice was tiny, near-imperceptible. "I turned on all the faucets to make it difficult to hear us, and I'm convinced these public bathrooms are less surveilled than our private ones upstairs. It's why I wanted to meet you here."

"Sure," said Saege. Conscience bit at him. "You're not in danger, are you, Clover?"

She winced. The scarred skin around her lips reflected light for a moment, caught his eye. "Technically we're all in danger," she said. "But no, nothing imminent." Her lips hardly moved when she spoke. He leaned closer, inhaled the smell of her. "I need a big favor from you," she said. "I need you to ask your boss to cut himself on a spear. Bad enough to draw a lot of attention."

Saege frowned. _It's not a trick,_ he thought, _If she were trying to sabotage other tributes she wouldn't be so blatant about it._ "Why?" he said. "Elliot's not going to want to. We're doing our best to seem dangerous, and I don't think he'd throw that away for no reason. Plus he'd be at a disadvantage in the Games."

"Nope," said Clover, shaking her head. "They'd patch him up today, good as new. And I'd pay him back." She sidled closer. "I need him to get hurt so I can join the Careers," she said. "This is the job they gave me to do. If I hurt another tribute, or arrange for them to get hurt, I'm in the Pack."

Her breath brushed against his cheek. He pulled away. "That's… Does it even count if you just ask someone to do it?"

"Probably not," said Clover. "That's why I'm being so secretive about it. I'll tell the Careers that I sabotaged one of the spears and Elliot was unfortunate enough to pick the one I got my hands on. I don't think there's anyone in the Pack clever enough to dispute me." She bit her lip. "Like I said," she said, "Elliot gets something out of this."

"What?" said Saege.

She raised her eyebrows. "Me."

The realization hit him like an arrow to the brain. "You'll defect," he said. His whisper was sharp with urgency. "After… I dunno what you're planning. And you'll come to us so we can protect you for the rest of the Games, and you can give us everything you have on the Careers."

She winked, smiled. "Presto. I'll even do what I can to take some of them out before I abandon ship." Her smile faded. "I know it's a lot to ask. But I think your guy will know a good plan when he sees one. Together the three of us might make it to the final fight and hold our own there, but with the Pack at full strength I just don't see it."

The subtext was unnecessary. _And at the very end, if we have to turn on each other, I could take you out more easily than I could take them._ It was a cruel strategy. Saege would know, since it was his plan too.

He nodded. "I'll ask," he said. "I can't tell you what Elliot will say."

"Don't bother," she said. "Just have him do it right before lunch, if you can. If you can't, the Careers won't accept me and I'll look like a moron. No big deal." Although the glimmer in her brown eyes suggested that it might be a big deal. "I'm gonna go," she said. "Come out in a little while. Turn off the taps while you're at it." She unlocked the stall door, paused in the threshold. "I hope this works out," she said. "For you and me both."

He nodded again. Then she was gone. He stared after her for a while, settling onto the toilet seat and crossing his legs. _This is crazy,_ he thought. _This is never going to work._

That was the thing, though. It could. It actually could.

 _That girl,_ Saege decided, _Is too clever for her own good._

* * *

 **Clover Forney, 16  
** **District Eleven Female**

When she pulled her hand away from her face, the tiny gaps under her fingernails were bloody. _I was picking at the scabs again,_ she thought, grimacing, wiping away what little blood had welled up with the back of her arm. Thinking about the scabs made her think of all the times she'd failed to get away from testing out some facial product or another. _This isn't the time to be remembering failures,_ Clover thought. _Not when I'm about to succeed._

The Avoxes were getting the lunch tables ready. Tributes were drawing near to the tables in knots and streams. She leaned against a rack of throwing knives and watched them all. _That's an alliance,_ she thought, spotting the pair from Six. _And that girl, from Twelve, she's alone._ Alluvion Scorand came surging out from behind the wrestling ring. _And_ he's _a Career,_ she thought, following him. He sat himself at the only empty table. She slid into place next to him.

"Hey," she said. "Any idea where your leader is?"

Alluvion jabbed a finger over her shoulder. "Walking towards us right now," he said. His voice had no inflection to it, nothing for her to latch onto, to analyze. _He'd kill me, I bet,_ thought Clover. _Without thinking too much about it._

She felt a warm palm on her shoulder. She jerked back, and Roman Ward raised his eyebrows and smiled and said, "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." He sat on her other side. "Did you ever figure out how to do what we asked you to do?"

The other Careers were approaching the table, but Clover had eyes only for Roman Ward, towering Roman with muscles built by meals she'd never have been able to taste, equipment she'd never have had the opportunity to use. "Yeah," she said. "I figured it out."

She looked to the spears station, the closest weapons station to the lunch tables. _Where is he—he's_ there, she thought, and the relief that bloomed in her chest felt like the gentle unfurling of a flower's petals in sunlight. "I'm in luck," she said. "Look over at District Eight."

Roman followed her gaze. "That guy?" he said. "Is that—"

"Elliot," she said, narrowing her eyes, watching him as his fingers brushed the shaft of the spear. "I watched his reaping. He was pretty stoic. He's gonna be a tough competitor." _Make this convincing, Elliot,_ she thought, clutching at the fabric of her athletic shorts. _Make this look good._

He wrapped his fingers around the shaft of the spear. Then, as if coated in grease, his hand shot forward, still wrapped around the wooden pole and then around the spearhead. The metal edges bit deeply into his fingers. Elliot's lips curled back into a snarl and he tore his hand away from the spearhead, clutching it at the wrist. Dark blood ran in streams from a slit in each one of his fingers, a deeper one in his palm. So deep she thought she could see muscle. All the while Elliot didn't make a sound, just clutched the wrist of his wounded hand and stared at the dark blood with gritted teeth and flared nostrils.

 _He_ will _be a tough competitor,_ thought Clover, wide-eyed. _I'm glad he just agreed to let me on his team, because I'm not sure I'd want to be against this guy._

Trainers were already converging, surrounding Elliot and ushering him away from the bloody spear. _He'll be alright,_ she thought, watching him go. _They really_ will _have that cleared up by the Games. I know for a fact they've got people on hand to make sure any training accidents can be fixed, so everything's fair and square._ Her mentor had told her.

Roman tore his eyes away from Elliot's retreating back. "You," he said. "How did you—"

She shook her head. _Cameras,_ she mouthed. "I didn't do anything, of course," she said, as an Avox whipped a plate of crisp leafy greens in front of her. She reached for her fork, winked. "I _certainly_ didn't coat that spear in a layer of grease. If I had, I'd be in a lot of trouble."

"Right," said Roman. His eyebrows furrowed. "Regardless. I think you've made your point."

"I think so too," said Clover.

"Well," said Roman. Around the table, the other Careers had begun to lean in, to show interest. Jax munched on a tomato and listened with wide eyes. Ivelisse smiled when their eyes met. Starla made every effort to keep from looking over, but Clover could see her peeking when she thought no one was looking. Only Alluvion did not seem to be paying close attention to what was happening. Instead he was stealing food off of Starla's plate as she stared unwaveringly at the other side of the room. _And these are trained killers,_ thought Clover. _I don't think I'd be doing any of that if I'd gone through one of their Academies._

"We talked it over amongst ourselves after you first asked to join," said Roman, "And the consensus was that if you managed to complete the… task… we gave to you, you'd be invited in." He thrust out his hand. "Welcome to the Careers, Clover."

She shook it. A grin overpowered her face. "Thanks," she said. "I'll do my best to be useful to you."

"Good," said Roman. "We expect you to be as innovative as you've proven you can be."

"Welcome to the Careers!" said Ivelisse, from across the table. "I'm Ivelisse. It's good to have you on the team!" She smiled. It was a beautiful smile. "I think you'll fit in really nicely with the rest of us."

"Sure," said Jax, "You look like you can handle a gaggle of trained idiots." He grinned. "I'm Jax Brooks. The sulky one over there is Starla, and the man of mystery with the neat tattoo is Alluvion."

"I actually watched all of your reapings," said Clover, "So I had your names down pretty well. But thanks for the refresher." She nodded. "Looking forward to working with you all."

As chatter began to sweep through them, she settled into her seat more firmly and chewed on her salad and thought, _Later I'll have to betray them. If I'm still with them during the final battle, whoever's left could kill me in seconds. That's what I need Elliot and Saege for, to buy me some time during the final fight. So I can figure something out._

She wanted to bury her face in her palms and never come out again. But that was only for a moment, and when the urge vanished it was replaced with the resolve she was familiar with. Steely, unyielding. _Whatever it takes,_ she thought, eating her lunch and not tasting it. _When it comes down to it, that's what I have to do. Whatever it takes._

* * *

 **Flax Newell, 17  
** **District Eight Female**

"Alright," said the trainer. "Let's test your snare." He plucked up a cloth bird with long fingernails and positioned it over the loop of wire. "The bird flies in for the food… and…" He dropped the bird. It brushed the wire. Then the wire constricted into its neck, digging in so hard that its head bulged and its glass eyes seemed likely to burst free from their stitching. The whole thing had taken no time at all. She'd seen it brush the wire, and in the amount of time a blink might take, the wire had choked it. Killed it. _Would_ have killed it, if it had been alive.

The trainer smiled. His narrow face was further compressed by his raised cheekbones. "Nicely done, Miss Newell," he said. "Now let's see if you can do it without me showing you how."

She nodded, reached for the loops of wire and the stick she'd used as the trigger. _I remember how I did it,_ she thought. _And if it's not perfect, I can jury rig it._ A shudder struck her, crawled from her shoulders to her knees. _Capitol, in the Games I might not even get any wire_. Her hands on the wire began to shake. _I'm not doing the Bloodbath,_ she thought. _So what are the odds I'll get any wire?_

She stilled her hands, pressed her fingertips into the wire until the skin furrowed around it. _Can't think about it,_ she thought, nostrils flared, focusing on her hands so hard that her eyes began to burn. _If I keep thinking about it I'll go crazy. Either… either I'll figure it out or I won't. And not figuring it out isn't even an option. It's not, it's not._

For a while she looked at the wire in her hands. Then she began to knot it.

It was absorbing work. Her hands wove and darted and fed wire through loops and knots so small she could hardly see them. _I wonder if this is how Judith felt in the factory back home,_ she thought, and a pang of longing, visceral and agonizing, struck somewhere in her breast. _I want to see her,_ thought Flax. _I want to see my sister._

Again she'd paused at her work. This time when she started up again, she thought she could hear her heart beating, somewhere in the meat and muscle of her chest. Sweat slicked across the white expanse of her skin. _I'll see her again,_ she told herself, as she bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood. _It's not over just yet._

There was movement beside her. She turned, tried not to wince as another tribute pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. The girl was stocky, with long blonde hair so dull it reminded Flax of a white sheet that had gone too long without being washed. Their eyes met. The girl smiled, but there were dark circles under her eyes, and worried lines dug into her skin between her eyebrows. "Hi," she said. "I'm Theresa. District Twelve."

Flax's hands stilled on her snare. "I'm Flax," she said, looking at her lap.

"Nice to meet you," said Theresa. She glanced at the wire, rocks, branches, and instructional pamphlets littered across the table. Then she reached for the closest booklet.

"I can help you!" said the trainer.

She glanced at him. "Thank you," she said, but there was something frosty about the way she said it. It was a tone she hadn't taken with Flax, not quite. "I'll figure it out for myself, though, I think."

As Theresa gathered supplies in front of her, Flax fed the coil of wire through another loop and thought, _Why'd she talk to him differently? She sounded… angry, with him, almost, in a way. More tired with me._

Well, that made sense. The guy was a Capitolian. Flax was just another doomed tribute. She hadn't _asked_ to be here.

She watched the snare in her hands. When she glanced at Theresa, she saw that the girl was watching Flax's snare as well, holding up her hands and wearing an expression that bled confusion. "Sorry," she said, when she realized Flax had noticed. "I just wanted to see what you were doing." The corner of her mouth flicked up and dropped down, a smile as swift as the needle-quick flash of a piston on one of the factory machines in Eight. "Snares aren't exactly my thing," she said. "I'm much better at sitting around."

There was a short silence. Then Flax came back to herself, forced a tiny laugh, and concentrated harder on the snare in her hands. _Another knot… here,_ she thought, palms sweating, refusing to turn and look at the girl beside her. _Tug on the end. Don't look at Theresa. Flip it over… And we're done._

She leaned back and looked at her snare. It was rougher than her first, the loop gaping limply, but it seemed as though it might work. _I think I did it,_ thought Flax. Any pride she might have felt was frozen and killed by the fear that lurked in her chest. But it was something. She'd done _something._

Theresa had leaned a bit closer and was examining the trap. "This looks really good," she said. Her blue eyes were narrow with concentration. "You don't mind that I'm looking at it, do you?" She glanced up at Flax, another almost-smile twitching around the corners of her mouth. "You're a lot better at this than I am, I think. Was this something you'd do back home?"

Flax pushed away from the table.

"Uh," she said. "No. This is new." She clambered to her feet. Even her limbs felt awkward. "I'm pretty much all done here," she said. The familiar flush was creeping up to her cheeks. "You can look at my trap all you want." She tried to smile. She could not tell if she'd succeeded. "Well," she said, already turning. "Bye."

Theresa probably replied. But she didn't stick around to hear it.

She walked until the wrestling station hid her from view. Then she took a few deep breaths and wiped the sweat on her palms onto her shorts. _It's alright,_ she told herself. _You're not here to make friends. It's better that you don't._ That didn't help the shame. _Maybe I'm not here to make friends,_ she thought, _But that's different from not being_ able _to make friends—_

She cut herself off. Down that road lay madness.

After a few moments of deliberation, she went for the station advertising knife skills. At the end of the day, if she didn't have people by her side… well. A knife in her belt was going to have to do the job.

* * *

 **Manny Axelworth, 13  
** **District Five Male**

The plastic of the chair felt as though it were melding into his back, he'd been sitting for so long. Manny kicked his legs, dug his heels into the seat of the chair. _This is boring,_ he thought again, tuning out the lanky trainer who was brandishing a picture of a successfully hidden camp in an indoor arena. _I'd never be able to make anything like that,_ he thought, looking at the picture, the way the bedrolls were camouflaged behind draperies, the supplies piled up underneath abandoned and empty sacks. _It's a good thing I've got Zippy with me. She's a genius. She'll get this sorted._

Zippy was frowning at the picture, green eyes narrowed, mouth pressed into a thin line. She asked the trainer a question. All Manny heard was the roar of blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart. _A genius,_ he thought again, smiling. _She can solve anything._

She looked at him. "Alright, Manny," she said. "I think we're done here. There's something I want to talk to you about, anyway."

He nodded. He would have responded, but he did not trust himself to speak. It was more than likely that the words would get stuck on their way out, and even if they didn't, the enormity of what he was feeling was too much to describe. _So much for being a writer,_ he thought, stumbling after Zippy as she ushered him towards the wrestling ring. _If I get the chance to write another Clara St. Michaels I'm going to have to brush up on my vocabulary._

His smile vanished. _It's a big if,_ he thought, hurrying after Zippy, too-big athletic clothing billowing around him. _There's a lot of people who have to… who have to die, for that to happen._ A cold fist clenched at his guts. _Ichabod,_ he thought. _Dante. Even…_

He would not think it. He would _not._

Zippy stopped by the rope that separated the wrestling ring from the rest of the gymnasium. "Okay," she said. "Here's what I was thinking. I think it'd be a good idea to invite Dante into our alliance."

Manny raised his eyebrows. "Okuh-kay," he said. "Why?"

"Good question," said Zippy, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Well. For starters, he's bigger than both of us and in much better physical shape. He knows more than I do about hunting animals in forest settings, and I'm sure he knows more than you as well. He is more than proficient with a bow and arrow, and neither of us is capable of wielding a weapon with anything resembling mastery." She paused to catch her breath. "Most importantly, though," she said, "I talked it over with my mentor Natalie, and she agrees that it doesn't seem like Dante is trying to play or use us. Kill…" And here she swallowed hard, and looked at the ground for a moment. "Killing us," she said, biting out the words from clenched teeth, "Might be popular with the Capitol, but we have to believe that he's being genuine when he's friendly. Besides," she said, "I offer him a lot in terms of cleverness and innovation. And you—you offer _me_ a lot in terms of…" She bit her lip. "In terms of _inspiration,"_ she said. "So we're both useful to Dante." She took a few deep breaths, cheeks pink. "What do you think?" she said.

"It's a guh-guh-good idea," said Manny. "Anythuh-thing you cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-come up with is guh-guh-guh-guh-guh—"

"Thanks," said Zippy, peering around the mat, "But look, Manny, Dante's coming over here, I think he saw us." She clenched one fist. "I'm gonna ask him. Wish me luck."

"Guh-good luck," said Manny.

Dante's grey t-shirt was darkened in patches with sweat. As he came up to them, he smiled and raised a hand. "Hey," he said. "I was just trying to teach Ichabod how to use a bow and arrow. He's still over there if anyone wants to join him, but I wanted a break."

"Maybe later," said Zippy. Her words were clipped, stiff. "Dante," she said. "I have a proposition for you. I hope you'll hear me out."

He raised a black eyebrow into a near-perfect arch. "Sure," he said, burying his hands into his pockets, leaning back on his heels.

"Right," said Zippy. "I think that if we teamed up in the arena we could help each other out. You make up for me and Manny in physical strength and combat power, while I can pull my weight with my encyclopedic knowledge and nearly-perfect memory." She had clasped her hands behind her back and was squeezing them together. "So I think we should ally," she said. "If you want to."

He stared at her. Then a slow smile curled across his face. "Alright," said Dante. "If you'll have me."

Zippy let out a huge breath, slumping where she stood. "Oh, wow," she said, wiping sweat away from her forehead with her fingertips. "I wasn't sure you were gonna say yes. I'm really relieved." Her smile was enormous. It was the loveliest thing Manny had ever seen. "Welcome to the team, Dante."

"Thanks for asking," he said, smiling down at her. "You and Manny are going to be good teammates. I can tell."

Manny blushed, mumbled a thank you, squirmed a bit. Dante was on the team, cool, tough, _badass_ Dante. If survival had been far before, he felt it drawing nearer, close enough to reach out and grasp.

The cold feeling in his guts came back, bit down with steel teeth. _They have to die,_ it said, _They_ all _have to die for you to live. This is no 74_ _th_ _Hunger Games, and as star-crossed as you are it won't end that way. There's two ways this story ends. And one of those endings is the ending of everything for you._

He had to stare at Zippy for ten minutes to get the dark thoughts out of his mind. There was nothing, he decided, that couldn't be solved by looking at someone so perfect for a little while. Her light banished everything that hurt him. She made him alright.


End file.
